


Caught 'Twixt Love and Nausea

by Kimbeen



Series: Caught 'Twixt Love and Nausea [1]
Category: Maurice (1987), Maurice - E. M. Forster
Genre: M/M, Retelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 20:43:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 33,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3354674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kimbeen/pseuds/Kimbeen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Re-telling of the Alec/Maurice ship, all from the perspective of vivacious Alec. I feel that although he is a fully fleshed-out character, Alec remains a little mysterious despite the obviousness of his feelings which toss him headlong into his impulsive actions. I wanted to explore his inner thought process and to be honest I took this to the n'th level, stream-of-consciousness style. Sure to be full of inaccuracies and wild tangents, but for the day that's in it! There'll be heaps of chapters. Oh God will there ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Plot mostly taken from the book; aesthetics from the film ie. people tend to have wildly flowing hair :P I probably mix up the two of them at lot; tried to stick to referring to the locale as Penge over Pendersleigh for example, though I don't think it matters much, just take it as the Durham estate, but other than that.. Will be editing as go along hopefully. 
> 
> Yes explicit was the category tagged, for (much) future events, but not to worry, that's just for safesies, nothing horrible at all. Dialogue is derived, if it even deserves that term, from any number of British locations and sources.

Chapter 1

 

Morning occurs far too early, daily. Sunlight streams in the window cheerfully; the trees swaying outside the glass go only some-way to block out that bloody shine. I tug the blankets off my feet and pull them over my head and add the pillow, for good measure. The bed's too small and I'm too heavy for it, now; but it's my favourite place to be right now. I try not to think about how hot and bright the sun will be abroad. Would you reckon I'd end up missing the English weather! Some rain would do quite rightly about now! But that would mean more muck at work; more work at work.

 

My Ma calls from downstairs. She's trilling at my Da, actually, but it's my sign to get up. Would you think that being that we live in the countryside in all of nature's glory, we'd be more keen to get up in the morning? No. My back still aches from yesterday and I'm heading back for more. I slide my feet out of bed, floor-ward and heave myself up sitting. I bow over and clasp my hands, preparing myself for to cross the landing to the loo. Off I totter.

 

“Alec, lad! Are you dead up there??” My loving Ma! On more than one occasion she's informed me that I'd be late to my own funeral. Oh no! Speaking of dead, look at me, my reflection. It's those long hours slaving away at the manor! My skin looks rashy and my hair... like the birds' nests I do have to cull... my overalls I collapse in every night are a filthy sight but that's probably because I haven't thrown them in the wash bucket in a week. Mam's going to want them to have them all neat and patched and tidy for when I go away. Though who's going to see them apart from me I don't know. I'm not likely to invite a lass back to my digs and hope to impress her with all in one pajamas. I'd be more likely to impress her in my natural state. Ha! Ha! But I unbutton them quickly and commence to giving myself a quick whore's bath. No point smelling like a flower and me shoveling shit around all day.

 

“Eh! Breakfast's on the table and the day's half over! Come _head_ , lads!”

 

“I'm doing me ablutions!” I roar downstairs, as I clumsily soap up so's I can have a shave. I've been told that I'm away to the barbers' on Friday for to be shaven and shorn and shined up, but I'm planning on keeping my locks, thanks. I wouldn't want to be taken for a soldier; they might invite the mistrust of the natives, for all I know. Generally, I'm torn between wanting to blend in, within in a crowd, and being reduced to a fit of temper when I gets overlooked. Fred has warned me against indulging in the second one. Keep your head down, says he, at work, at home and in the social landscape. At this rate all I shall see of the Argentine will be the walking streets!

 

Fred is sure and certain he knows how it will go for me. This is the case because he has it all planned out himsel'!

 

When I finally have my jocks pulled on but not yet buttoned, I race downstairs because it would be such a shame for Ma to lose her voice so early in the day, when so many orders are yet to be dealt out. Da is the wise one, already down in the shop. Fred glares at me thunderous as I sit down tucking in my vest and shirt jointly, because Ma has waited till we're all seated until the food gets dealt.

 

“A lot less sympathy you'll get over away if you keep up this style of lying in bed all the morning,” he grumbles as he flicks through the post. He's not had any post since he's been back on this visit and yet he checks every day. I prepare to say, “What sympathy? I see none,” but that's unfair on Ma who's this minute scraping the bottom of the pan furiously so's that she may get all of the bacon on to our plates. Instead I send old Fred a wink which as usual sends him barmy.

 

I get the extra rasher, even though Fred is the visitor, the one who's been away. I know Ma will miss me. I feel like I want to kiss her on the cheek, as she sits heavily across from me, but I can't, not until Saturday when I leave for good. Don't want her to see me off thinking I've gone strange and sentimental. Wouldn't want her to worry. As she murmurs a prayer over her eggs and pudding and fried bread, I glance at Fred. He has opened a business letter of my father's and is apparently poring over it, but he sends a raised eyebrow my way. Though there was never any fire and brimstone prattle in our house of old - Sunday being a day for preparing the shop for Monday's early meat delivery - Ma has a womanly weakness for the Christian habits. Time was, when we were bairns, the rest of us followed suit - Fred boarded that ship, years ago with a Bible in his satchel (not even in his luggage oh no! Had to be close to hand!) and Ma clutched my shoulder with tears in her eyes. I suppose she hung her hat on the fact that God would mind Fred where she couldn't.

 

Maybe the Bible blew overboard in a storm; either way Fred's letters and his good physical self boast of many people he's met and things he's seen, God not among them. In fact he has blown on about a fair many ideas and improvements to an extent that my father whispers worried on my Ma that he's gone and turned Socialist. I may follow suit and turn Socialist when I go, myself. But not right yet. Ma is very difficult to watch crying.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

 

On account of they're being so old and worn and beaten (not to mention cheap in their best state), my work-boots sometimes have to be coaxed onto my feet, a time or two even with bacon grease! What happens is: they get wet, soaking wet on my having had to wade through the Penge stream on one errand or other, and subsequent they dry in whatever shape God left them in. Usually only slightly foot-shaped. Stuffing with newspapers or rags is met with resistance. By rights I should get new ones, as they do not contribute to either my comfort or my workability around the grounds. But the aul pair have spent so much on me already, what with sending me overseas all kitted out and licenced; it would be a mean move to have them stretch to a less tattery set of boots. Fred remarked that I over-use them as I am always outside wandering about even when I'm not at work, and where I wander tends to be rough terrain but that's how I like it. Once I did try hiking around the woods to the east of the village bare-foot, like a real American frontiers-man, but I stood on a lot of broken, brittle twigs and then a snail and really it just all soured. I think my feet are slowly adapting to the changing states of these boots anyway; the blisters heal and appear in different places weekly according what part of the leather is poking into them constantly. This is a sure sign of an adaptable nature; bodes well for my future adventures.

 

Mentioned, didn't I, the extra rasher I got earlier? Would not, not you think, that this means I was preferred in the house? And yet who has got the bicycle today, and not a place in the world he need be? Our Fred, that's who. Hopped on it jaunty as you please, said he had 'things to see to' in the next town over. My eye.

 

“And what things?” says I to him as he circles me, me holding my tucker bag and gun, he pretending that he's just checking the brakes and the bell.

 

“Don't you fret yourself over that, son,” and sends _me_ a wink this time, wobbling away, and I'm aware that our battle is ongoing. No wonder that I am presuming to be alone away. It's on my own steam I'll be relying. 

 

Well. That's not for today. I am already going to be late for work, but with any luck I can make out like I was on the grounds all along and got waylaid from reporting to Ayres by some very necessary errand. Maybe that one of the deer was drowning itself in the lake. I was there to take off my cap and offer up prayers for its soul. Ha ! Ha !

 

Oh Christ though I better get a move on! Good thing I know a short-cut, and a  _shorter-_ cut of that short-cut, though it does involve creeping through a private horses-paddock and a back-garden or two. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

 

Penge at long last... Just as well I'm not likely to get all out of puff although I would have been here in half the time were I on the bike. Happen I would have taken the village route too and had a chance to cop an eyeful and attempt a bit of banter of any of the girls on their way to work.. Ah maybe I'll catch up with them later. At least I'm technically AT work and according to the sun above it's.... no later than half seven. I walk a little easier now and hope that someone will spot me, so that Ayres doesn't think I'm still in bed... much as I'd like to be! The grass in the forest is suprisingly green and springy.. short and scraggly though also; a few cows would clean the place out in no time flat. The deer hardly seem to eat anything. I'm supposed to bring them hay every so often if they start hovering round looking half starved but they never seem to appreciate it.

 

Air is nice and clean and the only sounds are my own footfall on the moss and the birds racketing above. Warm breeze and the reflection of the lake to my right... It's a respite before the labour of the day gets well underway. See now... this is my jurisdiction. Well, whatever part of it Simcox doesn't manage. And technically of course it's Durham country, but he never lowers himself to set foot next to or near the grounds! Only when he has “visitors” down from the city or from Europe or somewhere and he wants to spread himself wide and show off his riches. Unless I have had forewarning and hidden myself in the undergrowth, I generally get paraded out too and expected to doff my hat to the suits and dresses who seem mostly irked that they got dew on their brogues and slippers. I admit I come across as muddled up. I am proud to be a country fella, and wouldn't have it any other way and wouldn't want to be TAKEN for any other! But being praised for the work I am paid to do and congratulated on tasks the doctors or lawyers or ship-owners wouldn't DREAM of doing... Pure condensation, that's what Fred calls it! Would they pat a plough or a threshing machine for a 'job well done'? And yet Ma says be grateful for the position at all. And I am, or I would be more, if it was just me and the woods out here. Though it can get a little lonesome out fencing here on my own. Company would be grand but it is entirely dependant.

Here's someone of course!

 

**Whistles** Here Girl! Come on, that's! Was you waiting for me too! That's Tiddles, she's one of the few runts around here that managed to survive. One of the fully sheepdogs at the House must have had it away with something like a Jack Russel, and the resulting pups had to be drowned out... No other way about it. But this little one couldn't be found that day, went into hiding and what has she done? Gone wild, she has!  Don't see her too often. I could have taken her home, but I think she prefers it out here in the land. I can vouch that she's a cracker for the rabbits and the rats too, and the cats that come into the stables and piss on the straw. It's paid she should be not persecuted! 

What's this now? Here's the extra bacon! Good, good girl!

 

There's Ayres. (Away, now, Tiddles!) If I'm lucky he'll be my only upset today.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

 

It's bleddy hard to even get a fag lit in this cursed weather! Even when the rain lets up for a spell, everything about you is soaked through. When I wipe my brow sure I'm only spreading the wettage. I've me cap hung up on a branch as it's weighing me down in its state. The water adds ten times the work to this hole I'm a-digging and all. What kind of an operation when a fella has to stop digging every so often to fetch the bucket and bail out?! Not to mention the mud down here is more like soft toffee than anything else. It's to be big enough to encompass the carcass of a foal, born dead this dawn to one of the pedigrees up the stables. Not my department, thank the great Lord, although I shall catch it from the stable-master if this 'grave' don't pass muster! Poor little mite. Though he's as well better off. If he didn't measure up to his ma's potential for the racing it'd be the knacker's yard for him anyroad.

 

Wind blows a little through the trees and I wonder how long it would take any gear to dry if I was to drape it out thus on the branches. Most likely no reason to it, having the shallow reeds and the boats to tend to later, and I wouldn't even think on it only I'm not half chaffing, in certain areas, between me legs mostly if you must be intimately aware! I was told to dig this here hole in this particular clearing so as to get the whole disposal over with hasty and not draw attention to the unfavourable foaling incident. There's to be guests today and as such, efforts must be made to mask any signs of Penge's disrepair and disegration. If this was the case, all over, they'd want to toss a tarp over the whole bleedy building! Ha! Ha! But to be fair and frank: It's come a right cropper lately! If we was equals, I mean, by rights, I'd soon tell the squire but do you think he'd appreciate the advice? No. Now that I'm away for good I should make a point of telling the lot of them rightly what they is, and how this auld place looks to the general eye. They way the squire looks at this place, and his hoor of a mother, God forgive me, it might as well be Buck House they was simpering at! Maybe I'll send a letter expressing this from my sunny room in the Argent. Signed from old John Doe obviously but I think they'll clock it's me!

 

God my back is aching me. Swear the mud is sliding back in fast as I'm pumping it out.

 

Hmm, remote and all as this part of the woods is, mebbe I can rest a second before the procession comes with the body. Let me listen a minute....

Leaves rustle... water on the lake laps sofltly... birds chattering on another.... no humans, bar me. Nary even a distant shout or laugh. Shiverish, actually....

Still I can rest a second on the edge of this hole and rest my blisters. Maybe I can even lie back, and rest the old peepers for a mere minute, no harm, I'll be the better shoveller for it...

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

 

Hmmm-hm? What's that? Dash, must have fallen asleep. Did I hear something?

 

**Squish** **Squish** **Squish Squish**

 

Someone's coming! And at a fairly handy pace, to boot! I pull myself sitting up-right and hop into standing, stumbling and scrabbling for my spade, all butterfingered. At least I may seem like I am in the midst of labouring, as I look round quickly for the newcomer. Ordinary, the sounds feet make in the woods is the crunch of leaves or the snap of cipeens or the soft impression of the moss. But the day that's in it.. the squishing is increasing in tempo. I swirl round as I shovel out mud and rocks hapazard – Aha! Ha ha now!

 

Milly is making her sprightly way over, laughing and touching every third tree she passes. I chuckle and relax, leaning on only foot and reaching to my forehead to push back my cap a bit jaunty. I'd forgotten, it's not there so I try and tidy my wet hair a bit and wipe my face, all the while she's nearer. When she notices I'm noticing her, she starts to hop and jump to avoid the puddles all deliberate, and pull up the hem of her dress careful for all the good it does against the wet. It does a man good to watch her though!

Old Milly – there's a grand gel. I wouldn't take her home mind, and I'd be hard pushed to give her too many times – but she's a game lass and not too hard on the eye. She has on her purple dress, apron and her hair all pinned up underneath a cap – it's curly and plentiful though, and she's consistent in that regard all over her body! Ha ! Ha! Now her face I couldn't call pretty but look how she lighten up a place.

 

“Alec, my love,” she grins as she comes up to the far edge of the hole – both of us at the grave-side, as it were.

 

“Princess, you're looking _lovely_ to-day,” I respond in my best toffee, and she giggles and joins her hands behind her back. A familiar and welcome gesture. 

 

I run with this theme. “I say, what time is it? May I escort you to lunch?” It's no-where near lunch, but if she can come up with reason to come away from here for a while I'll take it. Particularly if it's somewhere where we can warm up together. I debate actually voicing this, but she looks so shy and coy and young and eagerful that I instead toss the spade and trot round to offer her my arm.

 

“Oh you are the _silliest_ , Alec Schudder. _What_ an idea!” In saying so she grasps my arm firm though and begins to walk back towards the direction of the house. Thank God! I grab my cap from a branch and pull it on. Milly continues, “What would make you think I'd be seen _anywhere_ with yo u?”

 

“What? Well, I can think of-”

 

“He, he, Alec, you are just _covered_ in mud. Just a frightful mess! Whatever have you been doing? Were you digging out that hole by hand?” 

 

Oh! Shit. I immediately extract myself from her armship and start stumbling round to the lake-edge, cursing. “Sorry! God but it's filthy work – I'd be better off using a pump!”

 

As I splash water on my face and scrub my hands desperately, I am aware that my clothes are caked. But I can look some ways respectable anyway; if Ma could see me rough and ugly the way I do be here she'd get a turn. Milly stands watchfully as I roll up my sleeves and wipe lake water on my arms. “Yes,” says she, “Probably a bit more respectful to be cleaner for the stables. They's a bit more refined than we, what with being round horses all day.”

 

“Horses shite, same as us and same as the Durhams,” I tell her contemptuous, and she squeals and covers her laughing face, waving at me to stop. I continue, “But what of it? I'm not heading up to the stables in any case. Aren't they dumping their foal, horse business ain't mine. I wouldn't ever think of sticking my oar in up _there_.” 

 

“You're going to have to. The hands and the grooms is all busy preparing for the vistors, in case they want to go out riding.”

 

I groan.

 

“So I've been sent to find you – because I _always_ know where to find you -”

 

I give a tight, uneasy grin at that, because I hope it isn't true: I like my own undertakings to stay my own.

 

“And tell you that you're to bring that foal down here and dispose of, nice and fast like.”

 

“Before the visitors.” That doesn't even seem necessary to say.

 

Milly comes over to me, sliding a bit down the marshy slope to the edge of the lake. She takes my bare arm and whispers, “But how about that lunch, eh?”

 

That's fair enow for me to be getting on with!

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

......

 

......

 

 

OOOOOOHHHLordy. If'n I thought my back were broken before... ! This will be the most well-earned lunch I've had in a month of Sundays. I've had to scrub my hands at the water pump because the cook would'nae let me past the half-door, the sight of me. Scraped most of the mud off me gear and the skin's that's exposed is clean as a whistle at least. Finally I can rest my body; I sit on the bench and stretch and pop some of the joints before I tuck into my pork pie. There was a bit of beer left-over that's not fancy enough for the house-guests, or any of the squire's garden-party do's and to be honest it has gone a bit stale but at this point it goes down like French wine. Glugging it down, I listen to Simcox and Mrs. Davies, the house-maid, converse darkly abou the vicar who's been hanging around, looking for to make some late conversions.

 

“It's all very well, that lot in there making nice with the clerical classes.” Mrs. D flaps her napkin primly, “But I'm afraid that when one has to deal with more practical matters like skirting-board dust and potater peelings -”

 

“And dead horses,” says I, with me mouth full. Some of the pie had to make room in fact for these words to come through. Mrs. D nods as if I made some otherwise sage declaration.

 

“Indeed Alec, it's a world away, and little help divine intervention will be to the likes of us! I'm sure it's pretty to read about and discuss, but well...” and her nose in the air, having summed up the point. I'm suprized actually, and a bit pleased, to hear her actually. Mostly, women is more given over to religion than the fellers, having what you might call more flights of fancy and more time to be thinking on these matters. Not the gels _I_ try and get in with, mind you. Leave the religion at the door if you please, and I'll do likewise. Now that I come to think of it, me own Ma has only lately taken to cracking open the family Bible what usually sits squeezed on the drawing-room shelf besides the almanacs. Only since I dropped it on them that I was going away with Freddy, actually, and I admit that was pretty sudden. 

 

Simcox has been stirred into action now and looks right pompous and disapproving. This comes from being a bloke, which in my experience is a must less pliable thing than a woman, and also from spending too much ruddy time hanging around the Durhams and their toffee cronies, unfortuneatly absorbing their views and ways. Makes him a right royal pain in the hole to listen to but I want to prolong this lunch break as much as possible whilst I can sit and take the weight off'n me feet. Milly's off somewhere though she said she'd be here. Didn't she? Probably got waylaid; queen of the house needed her corset tightened. Ha!

 

“Mrs. Davies, I think you dismiss the needs and temperament of our employers. Theirs is a different world, yes, but they are no more impractical and frivolous than we. Opportunity, of course, has been afforded to them, to contemplate higher matters that may seem to us intangible -”

 

Mrs. D smoothes her skirts and clasps her hands in her lap with with a look at him of weary, impatient fondness. I chew purposefully on a bit of gristle, round and round my mouth, to soften it for swallowing.

 

“Matters of the flesh matter not to them and so the salvation that Mr. Borenius is advocating possibly has more relevence to -” and his eyes slide over to me.

 

My mouth is quicker than my mind sometimes; me Da says I don't look, nor leap: just land. CRASH. I respond, laughing-voice, “Flesh nay matter tae them?? And I s'pose the squire brung home his slip of a wife so he could have her as a chess partner? Every night?”

 

Mrs. D laughs out at this and I can't help grinning at her; the right  _honourable_ Lady D, as in Durham, as in demure, as in docile, ain't a popular one. Only the squire seems to think she's a jolly good specimen and he's convinced nobody of the help, despite his political spinning skills. Happen we'll get ordered to like her. Almost seems as if he were himsel!

 

Simcox is simmering. “No, Scudder, I do not think that, and no more should you think on your betters in this lascivious way. Nor your equals...” He pulls out a fag and I swirl my beer around, watching, intending to make his sentence end. He's about to light the fag (without offering me one, of course), when he turns towards me, points the cig at me and tells me: “You could do well to listen to any advice the reverend has for you, Scudder.”

 

“Wot, tha religous tattle? Even if I were to convert, think I'd give him the pleasure of thinking he's another in his flock, heaven-bound – his doing? Nay, I find God and I'll keep him up in my room.”

 

“I'm not talking about holy sacraments, but something else – more – earthly, as they may say,” and he glances at Mrs. D who sweeps herself and her skirts up off the bench and away clattering the dishes. I hope by Christ this isn't going where I think it be.

 

Leaning, back he expands thusly: “It can go some way to a young man's development – even 'the family' (he means the Durhams, oh my land) can take guidance from a friendly but unequivically frank talk... why, I remember the elder Sir Durham, when he was so busy with his affairs and terribly important diplomatic work, entrusted me to advise his young son on matters of the -” He stops. Mrs. D clanks dishes and copper pans very loudly. I'm in transports.

 

“Yeh? In matters of the yes, yes...?” says I, leaning over the table, excited like, because I can tell just where he's put his foot in. Oho!!

 

Simcox begins to look round for an ashtray, deliberate, so as best to avoid my eye, before eventually tapping his fag out on the ground to Mrs. D's squawks of protest.

 

“Are you telling me that you had to explain to the squire... Young Durham,” - snickering now – Old Simcox flaming red and a-fluster - “the like, way of all flesh??” Just a phrase I picked up somewhere. I'm sure it means sex.

 

Simcox immediately stands up rapid and calls me an impertinent young pup and that I should keep my nose and everything else (!) out of the affairs of my betters and SHOULD he ever have had to parlay such delicate information, it was out of loyalty and servitude to Lord Durham who was much too busy improving the world by hosting European diplomats and if all I can do is laugh why don't I get back to bloody work?

 

I'm happy at work for once!

 

Cackling away to myself I leave the kitchen none to hasty, pulling on my cap and tucking away my hankie. Old Simcox and Durham. Oh my land. That'll keep me chuffed for weeks, that will. Now to find someone I can tell it to immediatly?

 

Hullo! I can hear voices. Girls' voices, down on the front drive-way in the orchards. By days, it's Milly! That little scamp, I'll give her what for for teasing me this morning and nary a sight of her since. Maybe I can grab something for dessert.

 

“...And I said to her 'OH! My lady, I had NO idea: SHITE on her, I had _every_ idea,” Milly crows to her little friend, not a bad looker neither. They are both leaning on apple trees and munching away as they gabble to each other and neither of them hears me a-tiptoeing nearer. I can be very sly when I want to be, especially in the middle of the forest, as like I was born here. I've not even lit a smoke for fear of them grabbing a whiff, though my coat probably has a permanent bang of it anyway. Perfume of the cherry blossoms will cover it. In fact maybe it's the sun finally breaking through the clouds, or the sight of the girls in their long loose dresses with their caps off and hair long and gleaming, their vicious grins and juicy, dribbling apples, the blossoms all round their heads and feet, but today has taken a sharp upturn and I'm in fine, fine form. Sudden sense of anticipation and excitement rushes me and I creep confidently up to the twosome and catch the eye of the strange redhair girl; she widens her eyes on me and hangs her mouth open appley, and I put a finger to my lips. 

 

I come right up behind Milly, reach around her tree and pinch her arse, scolding her, “Now Milly, you should know better than to speak ill of our esteemed employers,” and she SQUEALS and whirls around, batting at my hand but then squeezing it. She enjoyed that little thrill, and her friend looks just as delighted.

 

“Alec, you bad bad boy! I were waiting here for you, I thought we could have a picnic. I wanted to introduce you to Jenny, my cousin. She was thinking that I invented you! You just had to show me up,” she reaches and grinning, I deftly avoid a pinch to the cheek that is common to her. She pinches too hard, in fact she should take it a bit easier in every physical aspect. I prefer to be the one leaving a mark... But - “Well sweetheart we must have gotten our wires crossed, I was above in the Big House getting lectured at by the Gentleman's gentleman -” I reach near Jenny's head for an apple hanging from a branch and pluck it, and bite it, and hold her gaze, “but there ain't no reason why this picnic needs to be cancelled.”

 

Jenny blushes right red; she lacks Milly's spunk but she has a kind of shyness that's endearing. Of course they're neither of them much to write home about – maybe just a postcard – but it's fun I want, not a wife, not a burden, no sir, I need no companion or helpmate, thanks very much Mr. Bo.

 

“You think you can just swan in, late, interrupt our private conversation, and expect to be the centre of attention? Just like a boy. Come on, Jenny!” and the little witch grabs her poor cousin, wrenches her wrist actually, and Jenny throws a me a look of regret and of course - admiration, as the two tear away in their little boots, skirts and hair flying.

 

Now she's finally gotten my motor running! I love a challenge, I love to win someone over. I take a final bite of the apple and fire it hard to the ground, and chewing, I take off after, well aware that I could run a ring round the whole orchard and still be able to catch up with them easy. Girls just isn't as good at running, but if they hide.... well I just better find them before they do! Gassing about is fine but if'n I want to get a little something in before Ayres starts croaking at me to get back to work... I listen to their shouts of laughter and change direction, racing over towards the edge of the orchard near the driveway. I step on twigs, soft grass, apples, peaches and plums, over-ripe and too-ready to be picked. I bat away wasps and branches, dodge through the trees until

 

“EEEEEEE! Ooo! Get off!” I have one! I've come up right behind one of the girls and got myself a right armful from behind. It's Jenny and her red hair is all in my face as I squeeze her round her middle, not too hard but enough so I can lift her right off the ground and up into the leaves. “Give over!” she shrieks, laughing and kicking her little feet out, bashing my arms with her fists about as hard as a kitten. “What's the magic word?” I hoist her a little higher and she wails, “Stop! Ooo! I'm that afeared o' heights!” She's about three foot off the ground but all the same I set her down and pretend to dust her off, saying “Oh, I AM sorry Miss, I were only having a game and I mistook you for your playmate! You look so similar from behind.” She blushes and bites her bottom lip, fiddles with her fingers before sliding them round my coat lapels and without looking around plants one on me. Mmmmm... Every time I get a kiss, like this, I wonder how I managed to last so long since the last one. Even if it's only been a few hours – a couple of whole days, in this case. I put my arms around her when it becomes clear she's a right generous girl, no shyness at all, and I press my hands down, down her back... Her mouth opens delicious...

 

Milly appears panting, put out to have missed all the fun. “Oi! Why, ye devil! Soon's my back's turned...!” Jenny turns round, a little red shamefaced, receives from her cousin a pinch, but I hang one arm loose around old Jenny's waist and set the other on my hip, too pleased by half for Milly 's liking of course. I resist wiping the apple off my lips  with my hand and instead lick 'em. Milly attempts the charm, all sad and coy and fluttering eyes; it's so sad in a girl of her lack of looks that I actually waver. “Warn't  _I_ special, Alec?” she says a-looking at my feet. “Of course you are my love, you was on my mind the whole time!” Sending a wink at Jenny to keep things light. Milly just shrugs and steps forward. “You're just a little flirt,” and she walking her fingers up my arm. Day just went up in temperature about thirty degrees. “Naw, I'm a man of my word, Mill!” She closes her eyes laughs and nudging Jenny aside lunges in herself! Her cousin looking on all bashful and yet not wandered to far away neither! Now this is living! Milly's even better; she kisses my jaw, and cheek before sliding towards my lips. I'm main glad I shaved careful this morning. 

 

Just as I'm beginning to forget about Jenny, or the woods, or the entire bloody estate, she breaks away and says right mischievous, “That's all you'll get Alec Scudder!” Even as I lean instinctively foreward for more, she dances back a bit, holding my right arm. She laughs over at Jenny, who grabs my left and swings it. “It's all you're worth!”

 

Both of them laugh and squeal as they drag me around in circles and I shake my head, “You bold, bad girl. Girls! Two of ye!” Suddenly over these frisks comes the jarringly loud and familiar sound of hoof-beats and carriage wheels whirring. I look over my shoulder and mark that a carriage is trotting up the drive bearing who must be the newcomers. They should be:

 

Wait. Who is  _that_ ? Never seen him afore... The girls spin me round more and then collapse against my neck as I try to plant myself to take both of their gasping, shrieking weights, I strain my dizzy head round my shoulder to try and see more of...

 

A man sat in the carriage, nothing odd about that usually, a smart looking bloke, suited up, neat and tidy and official and presentable... but he seems so strange, he looks over as the carriage bounces and he sweeps his vision over the girls and then locks eyes with me, seeming shocked and disproving and sardonic and sweet. Sweet? and I suddenly feel a lurch in my stomach and the world spins as the horses bear him away up to the house and Milly and Jenny pull me two opposing directions towards the ground and we all three lurch round and land in a heap.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

 

For the rest of the afternoon I've been clearing up dog muck – must be a way to bring me back down to earth after the strangeness of this lunch-time. Never was I that bothered about any of the guests at the big house.

 

Alright. I've noticed fellers before – and done a sight more than notice, but don't let on to the reverend – but this feels different and unfamiliar and doesn't settle my stomach any. General, I – well, I – I'll take a fancy to a lass or a fella and it may be the case that they are in the mood also and – things progress from there. I am not in the business of marking a complete stranger, one in a suit, in a carriage and now likely housed up in a drawing room no doubt reading the Times or playing draughts or taking tea for a few hours and ordering the help about. My cheeks burn, burn as I slope around hopelessly with my wheelbarrow and spade and muck. I don't know if I'm more embarrassed or angry or happy or bewildered. Hmm, definitely that last one anyway. There's not a soul I can speak to about this; taking a liking to a feller not something I would usually  _talk_ about anyway, rather just do. It just happens, from time to time and I haven't really the time to worry about the morals and rightness of it. Ayres has given be instruction to 'clear up' the entire pasture east of the orchard, where the dogs to be given free reign to leave their night soil any damn where, as if it were just to evaporate nigh into nothing! No, its me what has to clear it up, peg it somewhere, dirty up my spade. Some of the dung I do recognize as that of foxes; they's unwise to hang around these parts especially if there are people to be entertained at the house. Not only does the fox's stink to  _high_ Heaven, there's the problem of them doing away clean with the rabbits. If there's no rabbits, there's no light hunting, and that'll be laid down on my shoulders not Ayres' of course. Luckily as you may know there's no onus on me to encourage the little blighters to reproduce – they're more than naturally capable of that – Ha! Ha! 

 

But I have to say. Over-all. On the general, it's not such a bad job - there's money – and times when I get to be outside all day and have the opportunity, when it's not too busy, nor too quiet, to dart into the woods and have a bit of a smoke and a rest and a think. Though I been thinking a bit too much lately.. About the Argentine, and the boat over there, and the weather, and the work I'll be doing there, and what my superiors will be like and the other fellas and the girls and the bars and the natives and the food and the pay and what is the way in which you has a wash. Fred is no help; his letters and his present person are focussed on his growing riches and accompanying upswing in tastes and position. It doesn't interest me; what I want to know about – or do I? - is the definite, touchable, meat and potaters way of living out there. How often can one get away from labouring for the day? How welcoming is the girls, really? Is there somewhere to wander away to, like the woods here. Jungles? Flies? Tropical ills? Thought sends worries over and across my shoulders.

 

Outside is easy here; to be frank when the sun is out there's no finer place in the world than Old England. So it's rarely a fine place... But still rather be out here in the drizzle – in the  _lashes –_ than tending to matters inside in the house. Oh yes, I am aware that my role out on the grounds says a lot – that I'm far from grand enough, even as a servant, to set regular foot inside the tumbledown old place! I'm grateful though and happier for it – that's what they don't know. Heard tell from Milly herself that there's a position inside in the woman's side of the house as a kind of 'lady-in-waiting.'

 

“Waiting for what?” I asked. “The aul dear to croak it?”

 

“HA! Shouldn't it be! But it's more like, the maid is there, constant, waiting to tend to her ladyship's every need.”

 

I wiggled my eyebrows at this description and as she twigged her use of wordage she just said “God!! With you!” and gifted me a punch on the shoulder. Quite a sore one though I didn't let on.

 

 

I had the opportunity once – not here mind, but at a place I was temporary afore Penge, over Norfolk way, where I was sent to work after I chucked in the schooling - to talk to a valet, a gentleman's gentleman himself, and he had his head a reasonable distance from his arse, unlike old Simcox. Of course that may be related at to the fact that he was three sheets at the time of our conversation. There was a kind of a picnic going on with the old dears in the Big House and as they were sat around their garden furniture under their parasols, the help that could get away snaffled some of the 'excess' wine – there was crates of it, a real celebration, a graduation or some such – and away down to the wood storage sheds wi'it. It was a real goer of a day for me, I'd never seen that much spirits, never mind had as much as the stuff to neck down as I wanted, I being around sixteen or so and minded, up until now, by my mother right watchful!

 

Anyroad. There I was at this unofficial graduation party, and the lasses was dancing and cavorting about so that only but the most brashest of the blokes would dare come onto them, and at that time that didn't include me, so I sat to the side under the climbin roses, dopey on an upside down bucket. Butler comes over – Harris was his name I remember – and gestures to the wine bottle I'm fair nursing. Friendly like I hands it over and he enquires after my name, station and what expectations I have for myself. To be honest in those days the most sport I could think of was taking the proverbial out of the old masters at home, at school like – as reminded me of old Harris – and now that I was done with them forever, I felt brave enough to venture that I had very high aspirations, very high indeed and that I had more than half an eye on  _his_ job. Ha! Ha!!

 

Well! Pissed enou as he was, he took me main serious, and to my surprise and larks he warn't angry or threatened but encouraging and right pleased. I suppose taken serious, it could be taken that I was so impressed with him that I wanted to be just like him, which couldn't be farther than the truth – as his descriptions of his workload thus assured me. I'd my fist in my mouth for laughing as he told me of the careful and important nature of the job as such duties as waking the master, dressing the master, combing and hair and tying his shoelaces, oh Land! : shaving the master and organizing his personal (but never his political?) affairs. It reminded me of something you'd have a nanny doing; at least the baby has the excuse of being small and floppy and good for nothing!

 

I mean I ask you! A grown man waiting to be dressed and shaved of a morning! If I waited around for someone to do that for  _me_ at home – Freddy, say, for sake of argument – it's not just a face still full of bristles but a red arse I'd end up with  as I'd be kicked down the stairs out to work . Sometimes I wonder about the high-up classes. Sure, they have riches, but all the same there's something of a want in them. Put them into a real situation – a war say, like my old dad was in in Africa – and I'd be amused to see 'e m grouse about getting their Calvary twills all muddy! I said as much – pretty much, in as many words – to Simcox and got in return not a laugh nor a reprimand but a long, hard look. Sometimes the help inside is worse than the plummies themselves – I mean, the toffs can't help their helplessness, they're born with it. Or without it. 

 

This is my point over Simcox, and Harris too – catch me at their racket – I don't think so. Stuck inside all day a-hovering round while the masters all slowly wake up, get up, drift around the house, read a little, eat a little, take tea endless, talk and guffaw over each other, then wander back upstairs at the first sight of darkening in the windows to unpack themselves of their layers of outfits and back to sleep again. I'd sooner the mud. But maybe not the dog muck.

 

It's them blooming rabbits that have the ladies' dogs driven daft. These little yappers do come out with the women for a little stroll on the shortest, and least waterlogged patches of lawn, and no sooner  d o the y spot the rabbits than they're away after them roaring. (The dogs, mind, not the simpering young mistress and her queen bitch mother in law. See them break into a run and I'll eat my hat.) Anyway, it's on me to do something abou the amount of rabbits on the property; this will lessen the amount of dog shit lying about the place as the dogs will be more inclined to stick to one area if they've nothing to do. I could venture that shooting a few of the dogs, rather than the rabbits, would be a more direct and permanent course of action, but I dare not suggest it – if something  _were_ to happen unpleasent to those ridiculous little spaniels, I don't want to get dragged into it by anything I may have said in jest! So I'm away to the back sheds to load up my gun and pick up a couple of sacks. I'll be sure to leave a 'sporting' amount of bunnies of course in case a hunt – or some imitation of it - should develop from these visitors. 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

 

Wouldn't you know it! I think someone's listening in on me and my grousing. I was only about four rabbits in which is only a bit of a start when I'm called over and told that I'm needed to assist in moving a piano? In one of the drawing rooms what's gotten wet from a leak? I admit to being a bit take aback.

 

“That's right Scudder, you are to go to the kitchen entrance and meet Simcox and he will see you to the right room,” says Ayres in his way, which is no-nonsense.

 

Simcox is tall and all, and broad enou, but he's no spring chicken and doesn't look all that strong; I am not exactly sure how we'll go about moving this piano but I doff my cap to Ayres and start off for the path through the cherry blossoms to the back of the house.

 

“Tidy yourself _up_ a bit first, lad! Chuffin' hell!” Ayres calls after me, and without turning to acknowledge him I redirect myself back again to the sheds where the game gets stored and where the pump is. Moving a piano, eeee.... Whatever next! Reaching the sheds I peg the rabbits still in their sack into the cold room and lean my gun against the door frame so's I remember where it's left, before making myself a bit more presentable with the pump. I use an old potato sack to dry myself and race off for the house, hoping I won't get another ear-bashing off Simcox for waylaying. 

 

I needn't have worried too much. Sally the inside maid was waiting with Simcox just inside the door of the kitchen as I hurry over, trying to avoid the muddier puddles. This place is a disgrace; in fact it really is held together with none but hope and the arrogant pretensions of its inhabitants – at the best of times. Right now, in the rain, the whole bloody place looks like its melting into the ground, and taking all of us with it. I shake off my jacket somewhat futiley, and flap my hat, as Sally smiles at me lovely sympathetic with her hands behind her back like Milly but more relaxed and cute and unforthcoming. Damn, if Simcox wasn't here I could most definitely strike up something with her, maybe take the long way round to the drawing room... As it is I shoot her a smile as I wipe my feet.

 

“Look lively Scudder! Rain's coming down heavier. At this rate we'll have to wade through the house.” An uncharacteristic criticism of the estate from Simcox. He's probably as pissed with the weather as anyone would be; I don't mind it so much because I don't think I could get any wetter than I have today. Not even when I do be sent in to the lake to drag the boats what have escaped back to the little dock and tie them up. I'll tell you, it's right contrary trying to tie secure knots in soaking wet rope! For this reason I tend to take the ropes as not in use and hang 'em in the rafters in the boathouse. I wish I had the kind of mind that would remember to do that constantly but alas.

 

Simcox leads the way, although I presume that Sal's errand was to fetch us, but that's fine as it gives the two of us the opportunity to fall into step together.

 

Sally's a right cute kid, as I said. Dark hair cut round her forehead neat and knowing, contemptuous eyes. Stood back and observing, she wouldn't be as fun or – shall we say – _hospitable_ a girl as Milly, but you'd get more out of her than just some fucks, you know? Some proper conversation and you'd kind of feel like cultivating yourself to improve, fit better around her. I think I would like that in a girl – if ever I was to settle down permanent. Don't think I stand a long term chance with Sally though – she wants to marry upwards and she has said to me once in 'jest' that she holds the trade of butchery to be necessary but barbaric! I laughed it off but went away wondering how common this perception is. I don't think I have the most civilized of reputations as it is, and Sal could indeed  d o a lot better on herself than roughing it with me. Like me she comes from a right respectable background; greengrocers in the next town over. Just as they had seven childer, the girls had to go away and find work, while the eldest brother is set to take over the shop. Her other brothers joined the army! Did you ever in all your life! But I suppose someone must. Now that I've set to thinking on fathers and brothers, though, it has occurred and it does occur to me that my old man won't be able to manage his butchering forever; it's a young man's work when it comes down to it, hauling the carcasses around and a-sawing at them bones and sinew and muscles and meat fit to burst, daily. In fact I've been pitching in more and more lately; I don't give it a mind but never really thought on it career-wise; there's sweet F.A in the meat business just at the moment. 

 

Still! Why focus on that right now? Sally and I slow a little and I give her a leading look, and whisper, “Piano, is it?”

 

“Leakage, apparently. Actually, no apparently. It's right there clear, coming down the ceiling, trickling like out of a gutter! It wouldn't surprise me if the entire second floor came crashing down!” She shakes her head. “Ah, the place is rife with it. Water, wood worm... Wallpaper's coming off the walls in some places.” She emphasizes this by pressing a nearby corner of yellow wallpaper to the corner door-jamb and dado-rail. It curls back immediate and she raises her eyebrows at me, cleaning her hand briskly on her apron.

 

“In that case, what in the honour of God is the point in moving it from one room to another? Fool's errand. The place entire should be covered in a tarp, this weather,” I say to her low, and I well aware that her agreeing with me wouldn't change the fact of the job I had to do. Still it was a relief to vent to someone who smiled back at me conspiratorially.

 

She leans closer and whispers, “Aye! And ther's enou of them in the draring room sat about idle, enou men even! Couldn't they heave the piano up their shoulders like a funeral procession? Make a game out of it!” I cackled as quietly as I could at this image, hand hiding my mouth, and I: “I suppose you suggested this to his lordship as a solution?” Sal shakes her head, goes, “Did I  _heck_ is like, Alec! No, I got the sharp edge of the attitude for having to be called twice. How could I hear the bell over the carpets I were beatin'? Hard enou it is to rise dust in this weather..” Simcox hushes her with a look and we lapse back into obedience, walking companionably in step with each other, quick march. Got to smile over her. 

 

Cor, this draring room must be miles away! I try to fathom where it is in the house from my usual viewpoint, out in the gardens, but we've made too many about turns and I've lost my place. Ain't half ornate though, the interior. I mean it's well elaborate but to damn dry and dusty, with loads of fancy light fixings and empty chairs and little coffee tables and endless paintings of old snoots what must have lived here once and repeating country scenes. I observed one such where the Hunt had an easy day's work; the fox was posing lounging within easy reach at the forefront in company with the hounds. Clear this artist had a reet good imagination!

 

It's dead uncomfortable. Chilly too, although I suppose there's no point heating the corridors but still I'm glad I wasn't instructed to take off my jacket at the back door. Our house at home is always warm of an evening when Mam is there and with only the two fires down: kitchen and parlour, and the heat rises up to the top bedrooms right nice! Generally the shelves and tables and carpets get right filthy with ashes from the grate and grease from the candles and crumbs and tea from eatin' and mud from boots and occasionally blood from Dad's butchering gear, and there's always newspapers on the floor, but Mam will get it cleaned right as a whistle daily. Not a palace but a fella can ease up and throw his feet up on the mantel above the fire of an evening. I've nae seen it attempted here; I wouldn't, the mantels come up to my shoulders!

 

Simcox stalls by a door to our left that's ajar and has low conversation seeping out through the gap. Sally and I flank him as he knocks and waits to be admitted. I pocket my hands as we wait the usual while; Simcox leans over and smacks my arm and points pointedly to my hat which I had forgot to take off. There must be ladies present. Although for all the notice they are likely to give me; I could go in starkers and start hauling this famous piano about single-handed for all they'd realize! I pull off my hat and attempt to stuff it into one of my pockets which are full of soiled handkerchiefs and empty cartridges and backy and biscuits for the dogs. With a very slight burn of the cheeks I eventually stuff my hat into the waistband of my britches, round the back where it won't be seen. Sally's looking on with hands demure but a very tickled looking look on her face. In a flash I wonder. I  _am_ going away in a week, so there would be no way of starting something decent anyway.. but what would be the harm in a quick fling before I leave England forever? I keep eye contact until we are allowed into the drawing room and Simcox enters briskly, then Sally who stares at me till she must direct her gaze at the squire in docility, and I bring up the rear and leave the door ajar as it were. 

 

I look up to see where this leak is and sure enough, there is a steady drip drip of large enough raindrops a-plinking plonking down onto the piano. It strikes me suddenly as something of a shame, actually, and I couldn't blame the – oh whou! Hell-fire!! There he is again! That feller from this afternoon, from the front lawn, from the driveway, from the carriage, when he was looking over and I came over all peculiar. Instinctively I hope my hair doesn't look too unkept; I did sweep my hat off rather swift before.

 

One quick look he gives us from his armchair; his gaze sweeps over Sally and me so quickly that I couldn't this time say that 'our eyes met' like the way they definitely did earlier. Help, I can't prevent myself indulging in a right eyeful though.. Closer to, I can now re-assure myself of the reasons I was thinking of him more than what would be normal ever since the orchard. He is folded into that red arm-chair all proper and leg propped jaunty; but doesn't disguise his long lanky frame and trim body. I twitch my mouth a little, imperceptible. With his fair hair combed neat and soft from his forehead, he has one of the long fingers of his big hands resting on his temple as he concentrates on the book propped in his lap. I rather fancy him reading a book, I don't know why. Books do not interest me generally although lately I have considered looking into some books on the Americas seeing as how I'll be calling there home soon. Prepping myself for the blue unknown would be the reason; whereas this visitor is clearly not enthralled with his reading and is only doing so vaguely, dispassionately. His brown eyes aren't even moving, maybe he's thinking on something else. Perhaps the price of eggs. Style is dripping off of him though. I shift my weight.

 

This sketch of him that I have just drank in has taken but a second or two; believe that I have only just come into the room really behind Sally, and that blasted old biddy Mrs. Durham Senior is talking foreign deliberate so that anyone unrefined and uneducated cannae understand her. Sally shoots me a looky. Don't you just know we're being bitched out of it; what kind of a world is it anyway where we  _know_ this and yet can do nothing about it but await our instructions!! Simcox goes over to the piano brisk and silently gestures to me to come grab the other end. Reaching that side of the drawing room puts me in the path of edging round the sofa, and round a lamp, a small chest of drawers and passing behind the fascinating man. I know I can't right plonk myself down on the sofa and help myself to a cuppa and a cucumber sandwich, but God put no price on havin a gawk... He doesn't glance up as I creep myself surreptitious towards the piano, and the squire is back talking to the room although my feller ignores his host also. Here! His book is upside-down? It never is – it  _is_ !! What's that in aid of? Perhaps he's of a mind towards quizzes or code-breaking??

 

I peer, eyes low and furtive like at the back of his neck and broad shoulders.... and may have kept on doing so only Sal nudges me from behind with a basin she's holding in front of her. Help, I hope she or anyone else didn't clock me getting a right royal eyeful. He looks right calm and clever even though his foot is jiggling frantic on his knee, not enough to jog his book though. I squeeze by Simcox who glares at me until I grab the far end of the piano, awkward, under the keys and no-where for my right hand to grab under so I just grip the back of the bloody thing vice-like as Simcox nods and we attempt to haul it off the floor. I can hear murmuring voices continue but the instant my face comes out all over red and sweaty I tune them out and try to mask my own panting; I see Simcox, right ahead in my viewpoint, afflicted similar, panting like a dog after a marathon.  _Christ this bastard's ten times heavier than it looks_ , he says to me wordless. We have the piano lifted together about two inches off the ground and are very slowly manoeuvring it towards the side bay window when I can feel a wretched pulling from underneath it – it's dragging the carpet with it and rucking up a pointless green rug beside my left foot. I meet Simcox's desperate eyes, and Sally leans down to try and straighten the rug. 

 

Simcox, whispering frantic, “ _No_ , Sally, don't put your hand under there, it could at any time drop!”

 

Says I, unsure of his meaning, “What? Sir, you about to drop it? Alright, we'll let go on the count of one, two -”

 

“ _No, Alec!!”_ a-hiss Sal and Sim together. Having started to relieve my shoulders, I summon a burst of energy and push the piano up an inch again as Sally tries to pull the carpet out of the way from the safety of a foot away. It's causing the piano to sway in our arms and I'm about turning Simcox-shade purple. 

 

“Scudder! You hear?” The squire. Chest heaving I forget formality and: “Wh-what?” I turn to him and the rest of the party regarding us quizzically as the piano wobbles and Sally's head bobs up and down and she cries a little as she traps her little fingers every so often.

 

I'm then told that the gentlemen present will shoot tomorrow, and as I nod and attempt to reply, Very Good Sir, I can only wheeze as Simcox starts to quickstep towards me pushing the piano at me bodily and I have to move at the same pace backwards into and almost over and across a purple ottoman. Old Sal bobs by and directs me into a spare bit of room, and all the while the rain drips down, and down and down into the basin now as the squire and his guests begin to rise slowly and drift out of the room.

 

What's this? As we finally get to leave the piano down gently beside a dusty plant – I would like to drop it violently to the ground with a crash of course, but that might be heard all over – I'm sure I heard Mrs. Durham the younger call their tall fair-haired gentleman friend Mr. Hall.

 

Mr. Hall. I look over at him again as I propel my arms around and around to get feeling back into them, almost knocking a candlestick off of a bookshelf. Simcox does similar but more discreetly. I wonder idly as we creep back to the wet patch of carpet, and we mercifully relieved to be free of the presence of the masters of the house, if the piano still plays alright, has the water damaged it beyond repair. Do they play it much anyway? I picture, and sound, a night with them all, not the Durhams and their cronies necessarily, but some such like toffs, gathered around and singing and dancing and playing right jaunty, like you'd see in a play or musical piece on the stage. It's a far cry from this evening's entertainment that I've witnessed. He's mulling over the books, as if he hasn't read enough already. Wish I know'd a little about books but no fear there.

 

Simcox and I kneel down to examine the damage – tsk tsk! Sally grumbles and scrubs at the carpet though there ain't a lot of point in it, now, and I am swearing over it before Simcox shoots a look at Mr. Hall who's the only one remaining and shushes me with another slap on the head. But softer; I take this as a sign of friendship and solidarity against the squire and the squire-ess and their tea-taking pals. Trouble is, I'm not perfectly sure anymore, or as sure as I was this morning, that I  _want_ to be on the other side, on the rung below, far away from these models of the upper class. From some of them anyway; he leaves the room, booked, and closes the door behind him softly. 

 

I stare after him, for a change, before redirecting my eyes to the sodden mess that is now this section of the carpet.

“Have to be pulled up,” mutters Simcox. I hope it's an observation, not an instruction. Round the room, I see settees, bookshelves, dressers, drawers, pot plants, and any number of rickety tables covered in knick knacks and delicate tea-sets. Pain in the _hole_ it would be to move all this stuff, and my job is outside, Damnation! Phew, he's hauled himself heavy to his feet and seems to be measuring the room with his eyes. Measuring the cost will be the noxious part – and breaking it to the masters. 

 

“Hay,” I say, nudging into Sally's side as she's stopped squeezing the rag into the basin for a second, as t'carpet don't look any the better for her efforts. “What was the old gal saying in French, anyway? You're a girl. You should know.”

 

“Aye, then so should you!” says she and she tapping my wet knee! Well! This flusters me somewhat – is she getting at something? She heard something? I fight back a blush and simply; “Aye, you'self! Tha cheeky wench tha'!” Peering right at her mocking.

 

Sally hops to her feet primly and holds out her wet hands to lug me up also. She really is a fine young lassie. I've had about a thousand thoughts I shouldn't've in only the last quarter hour, between Sally, and Mr. Hall, and the itching and unrestiness I'm getting accross my shoulder-blades, always thinking I'm longing to be somewhere else, doing something vastly different and better. Assumed, I did, that it was the feeling of anticipation for emigrating. Perhaps it is. But now I'm feeling a confusing homeward pull and it's nowt to do with the childish comforts of Mother and home. I want something new and different but I cannae put my finger on it. Too bad because my body's already demanding it. Sally... I've had girls like her before. Countless. Of course I could have her, easy as winking. How do I make it mean something bigger, and more?

 

Sally and I hover around Simcox; he disengages from the carpet long enough to dismiss us and away we go, I holding the door open for Sal and she in turn walking closely beside me, elbows knocking as we creep along the hallway, as they's sleeping, assumeably, upstairs. I thought she was just about to hook my elbow in hers arm-in-arm which would very suddenly solve all my problems but instead she whispers, “She were probably sayin', before, when we was coming in”, - and now, old Sal affecting the accent perfect: “'Weekend, My Dear Anne? What on  _earth_ is a  _weekend_ ??” Oh Sally! Girl after me own heart!! I'm a-crowing at this and goosing her waist all the way back to the kitchen where she flaps her rag in goodbye to me and disappears up a squeaky, narrow back-stairway off the side of the scullery. I find myself unexpectedly alone in the house; I'm often tending to things alone at work but outside, mostly, or in the sheds. I put my hands on my hips casual and wander round the kitchen a bit, but it's too quiet and enclosed so I  button my damp coat,  don my cap, and squilch back out onto the back grass to the game-shed. If I was wise I would see to preparing things, guns and shells and the like, for the excursion tomorrow, and I would sit down and think up a lively and diverting yet easy hike for the gentlemen to take, but I am disinclined towards anything so sensible and practical right now. 

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

 

O I'm keyed up, alright, but it's not work that I want to direct my energy towards. As I see to my own gun, which I always like to have just-so because you never know and also it's a point of pride to have it in top form, I think on the carpet and the old ramshackle house itself.

 

When I first manage to land the job here at Penge months ago, Mam were that proud of me, she away on the bicycle and come home with some new gear for me – all of which I'm wearing now and indeed wear generally: my cords, to which even in the few since intervening months she has taken a needle and thread and a fair amount of patches; and my once-white shirt and right nice waistcoat. New undergarments even! Why I was thus lavished I did not know, I had already _gotten_ the flaming game-keeping post, there was no-one left to impress, least of all with me socks and jocks! Mam let on finally as I was stood there for her examination fully kitted out, Dad behind me fumbling and fixing my shirt-collar with his clumsy fingers.

 

“It's as fine a place as _any_ in this part of the county, Licky! Or in the county over! And here you are, going to be a-part of it! It's a real boost to your status – and our'n! See, you have to dress according -” and she strides over and buttons my cuffs. Now, that must be what it's like to have a personal valet, except maybe they're a damn sight more _quiet_ than the aul pair!

 

“Now you _will_ behave youself at this place, won't you son?” says the mater, holding my hand imploring. “None of your – now, none of your – erm, your – Bert?” Last word shrill. I know what she's getting at but I paint my face right innocent and un-knowing.

 

“Carousing,” says Dad, and he slaps me on the shoulder to indicate that he doesn't mean that, not really. Well that's how I read it, weren't he a lad once too? Then again I may as well be a little more secretive with the girls and even more so with the fellas, or they'll have the reverend chasing me up; though at the rate they think I'm down-falling the next step will be a visit from the bishop! I wonder.. do they think that my departing old Blighty means that I will be more inclined to keep my trousers zipped in foreign climes? I don't know myself, but I _do_ know that the thought of getting onto that boat and sailing away forever with not a friend to know apart from Fred and he's nae exactly a lark and a half... doesn't make me feel right lusty. Actually makes me feel right queer, and ill. Maybe I want to get myself some lovin' here, England, where I had so many good sessions and that would be a proper good-bye.

 

Time for a quick walk – well, a wade – through the property, roun' the house. I've been here for near twelve or thirteen hour, now, and really should be finishing up my jobs to leave but it's so quiet and no-one is minding me – Simcox fussing over that carpet till doomsday and Ayres will be God knows where, so I pick up my gun and set off. It could be interpreted that I'm guarding the place; that's a maybe; the masters would be more inclined to take me _myself_ for a thief than to rely on me to safeguard them from a-robberin'! I don't hold with the mater's opinion of Penge, that its grand-ness is such that it lends its dignity not only to its proud owners but to us, its lowly workers. It's a workplace, same as any, same as an abattoir, or a mine, or a dock, or whatever awaits me in the Argentine. However. I been here so long, and gotten on fine, career-wise, and _very_ well, socially, that I do have a – a certain, not _fondness_ , for the place, but an appreciation and ease-ness that is more to do with familiarity than compatibility. Like how I feel on Freddie. That is to say, it does dismay somewhat to see the old place falling apart, caving in up on itself. Though it does not make me sorry that it may take the Durhams and their affiliates with it.

 

Well. Maybe not _all_ of them. I look up at the second floor and wonder at the windows, straining my eyes to see if the curtains are all closed up. Normally I can't abide the gentry – because they cannot abide me, and because their airs and graces and complete – lack of – _earthliness_ , mebbe. But one or two can get under your skin. And when they do, they burrow deep. But it's mere admiration – that's all. I can keep it to myself and let it run its course away. I keep to the shadows of the trees and the ivy archways as I continue my way around the house; my feet are freezing but I wriggle my toes to keep them alive-ing. Moon shines wonderful and allows me a great view of the gardens down towards the woods and the lake. It's miles home and I've no bike so I think I'll kip in the boathouse again. With this thought my body just gives up and begs to go and get some comforting rest, so I re-direct my steps away from the side garden where I was headed and start sloping downhill towards the shiny surface of the lake.

 

Worra day! And a half! It's a blessed relief to – oh, shit! Just remembered I was supposed to put away the shearing gear whot the gardener left lying every which way but bollocks, after him tending the topiary. I was probably supposed to clear up the branches and leaves off the ground with me barrow too, though that wasn't detailed. Oh, fuck it. I'll get up early tomorrow morning before this hunt and clear it up quick smart, and Ayres will be none the wiser. Durham would probably get the right hump with me if he or his guests had to lay eyes on the tools of labour lying uncovered on the lawn. But he'll be away all day smarming up to the unsuspecting electorate. Good that he'll be away all day; less good if he makes a right twat of hisself publicly and comes home looking to make the rest of us suffer. If that's the case I shall be pulling one of my disappearing acts.

 

Finally I make it to the boathouse and let myself in real careful; I even take off my shoes before entering, I'm that respectful of the place. Glad I am that it's not boating weather and I have the place to myself more often than not, because any work that needs done around the place, or any boating gear that needs fetching or fixing falls to me, so this is _my_ little part of Penge, Ma, though I won't be letting on to you or anyone else.

 

  


 


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

 

Aaaaaah... taking off my coat feels so good, and having a lo-o-o-ong stretch. **Crack** goes my back and I groan into the feeling; I hope it's not a pain that'll lurk! That damn foal was heavier than any new-born anything has any right to be. I take a moment to get used to the different kind of silence in here; it's very loud when its raining but right now all that I can hear is a very gentle lapping of the lake outside and the odd boat bumping off the little harbour. I'm almost more comfortable here than I am at home – oh, I get _on_ with my folks a treat but I been too big for the place for years now. A man has to make his own way in the world. I reach behind and scratch my neck, slowly... I just hadn't thought it would be such a _far_ a way.

 

Never-mind. No sense fretting over something that's only a thought. I adjust my braces and loosen my pants a little before hunkering down to rattle up the ashes in the grate and start balancing little twigs I've left here for to start a fire. Gets terrible cold here at night and difficult to sleep if you're shivering. Once the twigs start crackling and snapping like they do, I sit back and use the same match to light a fag I have pre-rolled. I pre-roll a lot, for handiness sake and so's I have one to offer, friendly like, if I'm asked; trouble is I seem to get through them a lot faster when they're there all ready in my pocket. Or is there another reason?

 

Which I meantersay. I must have lit my seventh cigarette at half past two; what am I on now? Best to slow down on them; want to make sure I have a rake of baccy to take onto the boat or I'll be lumbered having to barter for 'em. Freddy wouldn't help a fella out. I've heard that fags are wery helpful for to combat sea-sickness. I shift about on the nice, solid floor beneath me which I have lined in front of the fire with some old blankets and horse-rugs and clothin'. Solid unmoving earth feels about prefect right now: I'm trying not to think of the chaos and crowds and pushing and shoving and smells and by dad, sicknesses that may well permeate every aspect of the _Norma_ _n_ _nia_. Queasy just thinking about it. Puffing away anxiously, my gaze drifts out to the lake. Now, if'n I simply _must_ travel by water, that would be the way to do it. The little boats are rocking gently and every so often nudging against the side of the lake, real lazy and languid like, and only room for one fella innit, maybe two, but that's okay, because who would you be out boating with but a friend...

 

Getting sleepy... I'm that shagged that I can barely keep my eyes open but have just about enough sense not to drop off and light myself afire with my cig. I squeeze my lips round it and take a deep drag and perform another big long stretch with my arms above my head. Then I lie back slowly, keeping my feet near the fire for to keep them warmest and prop my head up on an upside down dingy that's been gathering dust the whole while I've been at Penge and by the looks of it donkey's years longer. Despondent. I've a feeling I won't rest easy even though my body has today taken a fair whacking, and my mind has too, or not mind but, something, that gets a person excitable...

 

This weren't half a flustering day. I'm main glad that I come here to wind down and not home, to a house full of questions and sad last-looks. Now I can think private on him. Him? Nay. I mean...

 

Alright. Yes, I'll allow that I'm no angel. Mr Borenius that minister has been making himself particularly peripheral to me of late, always and ever catching me on the hop from one jobby to the next and engaging me in general chit-chat before looking at me right knowing and suggesting we have a 'private chinwag' fairly hasty. _I_ know his game. I'm not as soft as I look, oh no. He's a-thinkin on having me _Christened –_ no lie!- and have myself a guaranteed, stamped and officious place on Heaven's doorstep afore I'm away and gone wild and wanton to the Argentine. He acts like this religious undertaking is something tangible I can tuck away safely and lovingly in my strung-together luggage, and it will care for me while I'm far away in sunny, sinful climes. (I should rather a sovereign and a pat on the head, truly. ) It seems to be a truth nationally acknowledged that anywhere that is not England is bound to be rife with shameless indecency. This does not thrill me right at this moment, surprisingly. Strange, my passion seems to have been simultaneously quenched and inflamed over the course of today. Or maybe it has just fixed itself to a terrifyingly single and unequivocal target? How long can I fool myself for? Mebbe I _should_ fall in with Borenius. Oh what a joy it would be to hand myself and all my sinnage over to a higher power and be relieved of all these troubles a-whirling round my head! To tie oneself more securely to the social niceties of the mother-land – that is, jump in Christian – may just keep me out of bother when I'm away. But that's my problem, see: I have these reet good intentions and pictures of how I should be, make my mam proud and myself too, to know I could be as good as any gentleman. Then lands something just about irresistible slap bang in my path and any lofty and righteous ambitions make way, violent, tumultuous, for base, sick, delicious desire. God, but he's fascinating. Squeeze my eyes shut, thinking, and pull my curls from my forehead. Mm.. Could I even be saved, though? Maybe I'm born corrupted. Sure, when I'm out of an evening and the attention turns to a girl, will I say no? No. What's more this isn't the first time a fella's got me right wound up and no mistake. But never before were it a gentleman; I have standards of course and never thought I should lower myself to scoping someone from the prissy privileged side of the tracks for some genuine funning! He's different though. He is... God something so earthy and strong and upright and rooted about him. And attractive, attractive... I want to wrap myself clinging around his fine upstanding form in the middle of a raging, raining, wind whirling storm. **Sigh** No, what am I thinking?! Surely I'm just gone demented with the randy. That must be it.

 

Outside it's raining just softly enough to lull a body to sleep. I stare a bit bleak at the moonlight coming in the window, and sink down down my little nest, wanting to feel smaller and more confined.

 

Have to get round to him again... Have to somehow talk to him. I've never been backward about coming forward, as my dad says on me, and I don't intend on starting now. Mr Hall. Sir. Damn it, any reason I can conjure up for hovering round him is going to have to involve my being in his service. I don't like it but I like not ever having a good proper go at him right less. Tomorrow – the hunt! Of course! That's the thing wherein I'll get in with him by giving him some training. I can mind him then – that is, observe him, and purge myself right of him. That's the ticket. Sliding down total, I roll on my side as I always must when I'm to kip and take myself a grand armful of blankets to hang onto all night.

 

 

  


 


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

 

This hunt is going really well! I bet they are all enjoying it delightful! I am being as helpful and attentive and informative as I can possibly be; there's no way there's a man leaving without _some_ bit of game to show for the morning's efforts.

I've it all prepared – actually proud of my efforts this morn. I've it all planned, to show the fellers the clearest way through the forest so as to lessen the amount of briars thet could tear their clothing. Pulled up all my own traps too, for the duration. Not an easy feat in this weather but best to avoid any nasty accidents – my neck on the block if any harm should befall the squire's comrades, and besides which I would't wish it on them. This should be a laugh for them.

Alright, it _has_ rather alternated between pissing rain, drizzling rain and absolutely bucketing down. But the way we're moving through the woods – I organized it deliberate that we'd be following this trail – means that the trees overhead keep back most of the rain; in fact we're all of us probably more damp in our feet and legs – ha! Ha! - as the puddles and mud _do_ tend to come up to your shins as we make our way slowly towards the east end of the property.

Mentioning damp, that is, to be honest, the best way to describe the _morale_ of this morning's excursion. I tell you, this just would not do if these fellows could appreciate the true nature of hunting game; that is, to gather food for eatin' and livin'! Alright. I do appreciate that this entire trot is supposed to be recreational. In fact, it does occur, that these guests of Durham's are being 'entertained', but not by the squire himself, who's gone, from what I remember from yesterday's ear-wagging in the parlour, a-canvassing. Not very hospitable, but then who am I to pass remark. Mr. Hall is walking just behind and to the left of me; I've tried several times to walk beside him but he's just too slow, picking his steps like a cat and I cannot keep to his stride without it looking right suspect – and without myself looking at him. But this position means I can do my best to direct him – I know how right inflaming it can be to go out on a rainy day like this and come back with nothing to show for it.

Ahead, a pheasant flaps its ridiculous, clumsy way out of the overgrowth and old Archie, I think his pet name is, my not having any other than his Christian one it will have to do, raises his gun with a “By Jove!” Mr. Hall has automatically brung up his rifle too and unfortunately I must intervene.

“'Fraid not, sir! That being a pheasant and it being only May, they's out of season and you'll have a rum time explaining that back at the house. Rabbits we're as well to stick to...” Oh damn and dash it, he's away following it.

“Haw, now, no need to get the law involved, young fellow!” And away he goes, neglecting to disarm his gun before he takes off on a slow, sticky run. I don't think I need worry, the pheasant has flown away into a tree and it would take a better eye and hand than this lot have between them to shoot a stationary bird off of a branch. I can see where he landed exactly but am keeping mum. Really, I do admit it's bothersome but who's to say Durham won't raise holy hell at arbitrary laws being broken on his property and who would get it in the neck? Me.

I turn to check on Mr. Hall again, meanwhile trying to dredge up something to say to him, when a skite of rabbits runs past us in every which way, and he starts after them, quick like, and I put out my had to his arm but stop short of touching. Thank God!

“Not too hasty, sir, you'll not catch up with a rabbit I'm afraid! And not too clever to run in this mud, that's a good way to get yourself a twisted ankle, broken leg,” I tell him all this earnest, looking into his face as he looks after the rabbits as if they's done him a personal slight. Maybe _I_ have, by being so forward and instructive? To make amends,

“I'd take this route here, sir, it's a bit wet on the way alright, but it'll come to a clearing where you're sure to see a load of the little blighters racing by as it's right near their burrow. You can do your shooting standing, no need to go wearing yourself out,” I add kindly, feeling warm and pleased as I turn towards the path to the clearing, keeping an eye on him and hoping rather desperately that he'll follow.

“Yes, well... Thank you,” says he and I have to resist for the second time in as many minutes the urge to take his tweedy elbow and lead him. I hope that he might offer some more in the way of talking as we slowly push our legs through the rushes and bushes and saplings and weeds, but he seems completely distracted, or rather fixated on something else entirely. Momentarily I'm lost for words, for looking stealthy at him.

 

Tall, as I remember. Only saw him upright when he finally stood up after choosing that book last night and disappearing. Can appreciate it a lot more now... His hair is cut careful and arranged neat, I can tell, but it's coming apart and approaching messy now that he's been out larking about all morning; can't decide whether I'd rather neaten his hair back normal or mess it up total. High cheekbones like a girl but big, strong hands and wide shoulders like a giant; looks all the more like one for his unwieldy walking on this springy moss. His eyes are either looking away into the distance or cast downwards so it's difficult to see but they look light blue and startled. Startling. His big body is encased in gear so unaccustomed and unable for a hunting expedition that I despair for him! Plus fours, of course; fine looking tweedy coat, far too long down to the knees that will soak up the rain and dew from the vegetation far too easy. A shirt that looks like it has actually been starched; every button done up and what's more, matching. No hat or gloves, and shoes that he must have borrowed for his discomfort. I pause, pretend to examine the horizon through a couple of trees so I can let him pass me out, so I can get in behind him. I want to push him to move faster, make this a success but then, it'll be over and he'll have been absorbed back into the Big House. It's as if he's the type more suited to indoor sports, anyroad. No Alec! Don't think that a-way! God, keep yourself in check! Get thee behind me, Satan!

 

Still, no harm in some friendly banter. Part of my job, isn't it? What's left of it anyway. Doesn't matter what I do since I'm more or less on that ship away anyway. Look at him again, cautious.

“You want to be sure you don't go for a hare now, don't seem a lot different but they don't come on until September either... the rabbits donnot get a break at all even on a Sunday! And they do main destroy all around them, don't discriminate between the weeds and the prize begonias...”

He's looking away even as I peer at him close and I even hear him sigh. That's marginally less crushing than a yawn, but I decide to direct my directions to the party at large; Mr. Hall doesn't seem to be inviting intimacy and I am being shot out of the sky here. Buggery!

“You'll want to station yourselves over – here -” I say, loudly to everyone, and I plant my feet and raise my gun waiting. This'll show'em.

Here they come, those bunnies are as daft as they deserve to get blown to bits!!

BLAM BLAM BLAM!! BLAM!!

 

_Nicely_ done, Alec! And here's where I'd send in the dog, if I had one wi'me! As it is, I'm far too seasoned at this to go collect my shootings myself right now; good way to get my own head blown off as one of the toffs gets _I SAY!!_ excited at the first sight of a live one and I there in the middle of them – soon to be splattered all over the copse. So I hang back and look at the others encouragingly.

“Keen eye,” says Mr. Hall, looking exhausted. I glow again but just nod towards the clearing to indicate that he should give it a try.

“I say, Maurice,” says Archie then. _Maurice._

He looks at his friend and I chew agitated on the wisp between my teeth, trying not to gaze too obviously at him. Maurice.

“I meant to say to you, it's a frightful thing, but I was out on a hunt a few months hence over in Wiltshire, a _proper_ hunt now, not like -” Waves at _me_ , if you like! Hmph! Don't mind me, old cloth-ears here! I don't count! _Proper_ hunt, my eye. I work the toe of my boot into the mud moody, but keep a-listening. I like gossip. I like to cause it too!

“Well it was the rummiest thing. On the way home, that afternoon, didn't the young boy of our host – really only a slip of a lad, too young but there you are, his first hunt, real occasion – he fell in front of a bus, or some such – dammit, nearly had that one, they're fast! - anyway, killed instantly.” Blimey!!

Mr. Hall shakes his head. “And we think we have our troubles,” says he. Shakes. “Unimaginable.”

I can imagine it all too well, actually. Nearest I come was getting ran over with a bicycle, twice, by Fred only, but still...

Archie aims again. “Yes, his parents are the real victims. Old – now I can't remember his name, but the whole ghastly incident put paid to his marriage, poor old sport. His wife is in London with some young cad and he himself went away touring and disappeared into the South American jungle without a trace.”

South American jungle? Disappeared? I let on I see something away near the golden beeches and move away from them sudden and scratch my neck and chew my grass. Uncertainty and foreboding fills me again.

“Perfectly dreadful,” says Mr. Hall.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next few chapters are be rather Jane Austen-like in their brevity, and so will be uploading them in little handfuls, all going well

Chapter 12

 

All in all, the morning was a bit of a washout, truth to be told. I could tell that the two city visitors were getting thoroughly fed up with the entire juncture, as the sodding day wore on, and on. Me, I didn't mind so much; the rabbit population was decreasing _some_ what and at least the trip round gave me an idea of where they were gathering this weather, so's I can come back later and do for a few dozen more of them. If I can be bothered of course, as my notice is already handed in and my luggage all but packed at home. Still, don't want to leave things hanging; it's not my way to do anything by halves.

 

Hovering around Mr. Hall as near as I dare (which is several yards away through rain-dripping thicket), he looks more than annoyed at this lacklustre hunt; more than irritated at partaking in this gentlemanly pursuit that one is obliged to enjoy, especially at the home of one's old college friends. Fancy that. Maybe I could be a toff mysel, blend right in – if it weren't for my manners being rough as a bear's hole as me dad would say – ha ! Ha! Really, he appears to be right distracted – surely someone's aim couldn't be _that_ bad, even if you only hold a gun twice yearly? More, more, more than that even – he looks just right miserable. It comes a something of a jolt to me to be concerned thus; to even acknowledge that the established classes have anything resembling hardship! It's difficult to brood over him _and_ fell the bunnies all while trying to whip my blessed hair out of my eyes. Won't be too soon when Ma gives me hair a good chopping in preparation for looking respectable for my new position. Penge, give its due, is a place where it don't matter what the servants a-look like, as long as they look lively! Pearls from Mr. Simcox for you!

 

  


 


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

 

Lunch time at last – Thank God! I take it in the feed shed, appropriately enough, and I gullet down half my pork pie before I even wash my hands I'm that starved. In fact I barely chew it and would really appreciate some beer like yesterday but I daren't set foot inside the kitchen while I look the way I do and run a danger of trekking mud and dripping water. It's less of a hassle to wait out here than have to excuse my appearance. It's not as if I am about to dress for dinner! Now wouldn't that be some airs and graces! Happens so irregular anyroad; yesterday and the piano was an exception. Now Alec... don't go dreaming away agin. Day's nay half over yet.

 

Aaaagh, I've not been properly dry all day! All _week._ I take off my jacket slowly, with difficulty; it's fair new as I say but I think it's shrunk with all this rain and Ma has washed it about three times since I got it, as I had some carcasses to tend to and the smell didn't half linger. My skin feels rubbed red raw in certain places; best not to examine _where_ right now in case someone happens by, even if it were only one of the horses! Instead I slide down the wall and try to concentrate on my food instead of the cold in my toes. This works quite well; Ma's pork pies are that effective. Imagine me, in months to come, tearfully yet joyfully telling strangers how I _miss_ me Ma's pork pies and how they are considered the Best Pies in London. Sod it, some sunny simpletons aren't gonna know different! Though a fellow-limey may be sharp enou to mark my accent, as unfamiliar to London as the trees and lakes themselves... It is a lonely sort of an enterprise, eating alone.. though to be honest if the alternative is to endure another of Borenius' “friendly” lectures then I'd take my tea out in a tent in a field rather! He's starting to get right on my wick, and what's all the more maddy is he _means well_. Even my own mother, honest as the day is long, considers this to be so! And am I going to tell her that its a load of hot air he's attempting to fill me with? No. She thinks appropriating religion will be an advantage to my social standing. Such as it is. Social slouching, in my case.

 

I'm that wore out that I have to grab the arm of a rusty old plough that's been stored here since the Romans and haul myself upwards, my legs, back, arse all aching together in tandem. Hope no one can see me thus engaged, especially any of the girls; I like to give off the idea that I'm right unshakable strong and competent at everything I do. This would make it difficult to entertain a wife permanent, now that I think on it; knowing me and the way I carry on always, contemplative and silly and hot-headed that I am, that impression of Alec the Brave wouldn't last fair long past the wedding night! If it even made it that far – ha ! Ha! I can allow myself to laugh at that notion. In reality I've never had any complaints in that department. Though actually I have a tendency to be blind to criticism, me Dad say.. and all t'masters at school had to communicate their displeasure with me through the cane, when a scolding would do nothing! You'd think it would have learned me to behave but it's only made me that much more unimpressed with those authoritative types!

 

Say to Ayres, whom I bump into on leaving the feed shed, that I have an “errand to run” - at least, I say this but on the trot panting so it's debatable whether he heard me – his bellowing tells me maybe – and off I race to the boathouse to retrieve a spare coat. I seldom use it and actually it's not originally mine, or mine at _all,_ seeing as how I found it here hung dusty and mothy on a peg in the boathouse, but I have done it the service of an outing every so often. Looking down at myself, I feel so sudden and strong so aggrieved that, unlike the gear of some certain people around the estate, the coat is too big for me, has holes in the pockets, and is absolutely doubtless about several decades out of fashion. This fella probably saw Nelson. Oh well – I'm that bit drier. Small mercies. I pull and tug on the sleeves to make it look like my shoulders are the coat's natural occupants. Fruitless in this endeavour, I trudge back to the house to hang round the back door and await my orders. My cap I must wring.

 

  



	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

 

Gluttons for punishment they be, the party has re-established itself for more hunting. If this morning was bad, this afternoon is nothing more or less than a _chore_ , and worse than a chore because by the looks of it, when we're through we won't have the satisfaction of a job well done, or even anything done at _all,_ save a sodden trek through the dreary Durham dominion. This feels almost like a joke, or a social science experiment those intellectuals conduct or invent – Fred has an interest in pulling apart behaviours. How can any-one, no matter how many letters they've written after their name, put a lick of sense on this?! No-one's enjoying themselves. This morning there was a decided lack of spirit with the venture, owing, I would have thought, to the weather, but heaven knows they're miserable now: sinking to their knees in mud-places where they didn't heed my warnings. Even Archie ( _London_ , if you please. How's that for a name for you?), who was the twattier and the chattier of the two this morning is deflated. I gather that the hunting was his idea and thus he feels he has to make a jolly time of it.

 

It's up to me, so, to ensure that some good comes of the day. I've planted the nets around the burrows right careful, and I've showed the others how to do so as well, but I stand by what I say: I did all of it. You have to make sure that the nets are planted in such a way so that the rabbit don't tear through it and alert all his mates to the gap! This time I've brung my spade for to dig up the rabbits and the ferrets too, once they's done their duty. It's cumbersome and I've had to drop the spade a time or two to flash my gun up quick in two hands so as to blast some of the bunnies, but the drudgery of the work keeps the body occupied, at least.

 

“Bastarding little things!” harrumphs Archie; and later: “To hell and _blazes_ with this!” Mr. Hall is unresponsive. I give especial instruction to him regarding the lay of the land, warning him where it gets right marshy and where there are weaknesses in the ground from the amount of burrowing; in fact I suggest that he follow me close, not in so many words of course, but he keeps blundering off on his own, stumbling while having his gun fire-ready in away that makes me wince but warms my heart.

 

Through the thickening mist it's difficult to see him – or the rabbits, what I'm _supposed_ to be watching, darsh it – but I keep myself aware of his form from a few yards away as we continue to circle the warrens. Rabbits are tricky little feckers and they don't like rain! Excellent in a way, they'll be all converging whole-sale into their burrows and we can flush em out eas –

 

“HEY!! Is that one of ours?” What was that? London it was and he's a-lookin at me but pointing over the – oh, _fuck_!! Well, there he goes. There goes one of our ferrets, one of our _good_ ones, gone for a burton, over the hills and far away and not a single blasted rabbit ahead of him to boot.

 

“Poor form!” I say, turning to my charges and venting, pointlessly. “Which of you was minding the eastern-facing holes?” No answer save for sullen faces, which Mr. Hall can't even manage to pull off un-becomingly. Frustrated, because that _was_ a good ferret and if he's a-killing rabbits I want to be in charge of him, and also I know I'll be the one having to explain it to Ayres and possibly even Durham, I spit, turn, and slap a tree.

 

London doesn't want to leave _that_ un-retorted: “I say, Shrader, isn't this _your_ jurisd-”

 

“Well _Jesus_ I can't do bloody everything! Be everywhere!” This impossible, ridiculous impulsiveness that I've been just giving vent to lately is uncontrollable, and every time I shoot my mouth off or jump in with both feet I visualize a big, sunny, laughing ship about to bear me away forever. I do that now and it enables me to stalk off haughtily from the squire's esteemed guests, though my knees tremble as I do. I bend and begin to pull up the nets, red pressure in my forehead.

 

I concentrate fully on this and hear their disgruntled voices fading and their footsteps squishing away a good distance before I allow myself to breathe regularly again. This isn't on. We're a long way from the orchard, the two of us. Ayres comes along at this opportune moment, when it's all winding down and muttering about 'bloody hobbyists', he joins me in pegging the wet, dirty rabbits into the baskets and the barrow. I'm sent away to the cooling shed to sort the carcasses. I'm sure you'd rather not join me.

  



	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

 

End of another day – thank God or, no? Another day nearer to the ship in the dock, another precious last day here in England. My heart hammers at the thought, and not from blind blinkered patriotism neither. Nor the apron-strings, by rights, as I say, a boy like me would want to have a path well-treaded away from the childhood home. That is to say, I do want something different, but I'm not sure if I want the huge change that's being afforded to me by old Fred. Oh, _he_ took to it handy enough, the foreign climes and ways and opportunities for betterment; the way the older brother and next-in-line should. It's difficult being a man, and also the baby of the family. Very dualistic. Very _undeciding._ It's like I haven't felt so single-minded about anything, haven't wanted anything so bad in a long time, and now... But surely he's a phantom, it's a fever, or a test... maybe I should ask Borenius, unspecific about my concerns like, and he could make this all go away...

 

Can you see all these thoughts whizzing round and round in my head? Maybe I'm delirious. It's still raining and I were that long cleaning rabbits that I'm still here at this ruddy place at this godforsaken hour. Moon's up and hanging in the sky like he's been there comfy hours hence. There's guts under my nails and blood all over my clothes and hands, and my face no doubt as I had to keep sweeping the dripping rainwater and sweat off'n my forehead, the work were that effortful. Them bunnies better main be appreciated.

 

Well, I know some of them will be, I'm stowing away a couple to bring home and have Da cleave up mebbe, and Ma tend to the pot. Nice stew would go down right quicksilver about now, or rather, tomorrow. Ma would hang me by the rafters her _sel_ if I passed the threshold of the house covered thus in blood and mud and shite. So I'm again making my way down past the lake, which is gentle and welcoming in the moonlight after all the, in fairness, violence of the day, to the river, where the moving water is more effective in rinsing and rinsing and rinsing the stains out of my gear. I stand in the middle of the shallow stream in me keks, scraping off the mud and squeezing out the brown water and watching it flow away downstream. It's freezing cold this time of night but somehow it's much more enjoyable than plodding laboriously about in the rain. I should mention this to the guest; a midnight wash-up – with me – is a lot more fun than hunting for his highness, just you see.

 

Maybe I _could_ say it to him. In the interest of his pleasure – n-no! His enjoyment, recreation – of course.

 

Right, I've donned as much of these wet clothes as I dare; just my britches and shirt while the other can get hung up for a dry. If there's any bit of sun at dawn, my coat, waistcoat, jocks... should all be dry before I have to get to work tomorrow morning. I stand suddenly, looking at my clothes strewn over the hedgegrow. What a feeling, or not a feeling, but a thought, in the back of my head.. it's been a day of it but I can't go to sleep _now,_ not when I'm suddenly free! Ma says I'm a night owl. Something about the moon makes me want to wander; maybe it's fairer to say I'm nearer a lunatic.

 

I must be! Because who would force his feet back in to his boots, that would scarce resemble footgear if they weren't thus engaged? But I want to take another turn or two around the garden. See, you do this a time or two and you get rather attached to the mood around the place at night: the wet dew on the grass, the black-ness of the windows yet the dim moonlight lighting up the ivy a-clinging to near every inch of the house. What with the moss on the conservatory, and the grass spouting out of the cracks in the roof and the gutters, Penge looks closer to something alive and organic. I can think this freely about the old place if I'm here, gazing, on me laurels.

 

Smells of the flowers and the cut grass is main more strong at night: the air in your nose is colder, sharper; and the silence, the silence, the silence. Slow, soft, squish of my own ginger feet the singular comforting sound, save for the odd fox in the far, far distance or deep low of a cow on the farm two miles over.

Even the really distant hum of a motor-car! Maybe there's to be more visitors. Someone with a string of letters after their name to add weight to his Lordship's political campaign.

 

I wonder which window is the master's. Most likely the big one in the middle with the ivy artful all around. I've half a mind to lob something at it – a rotten tomater, had I one, or a – a handful of mud! That'd soon learn him! Ha ! Ha ! Let's see - NO, Alec lad, you're getting much too lenient with your behaviour and mischievous with your thoughts as is!!

 

Heart hammering, and numbly grateful that for once I employed my own small measure of British reticence, I turn military style to direct my footfall back to the side garden, and the lake and the safe isolation of the boathouse before I _really_ lose the run of mysel -

 

“Come!!”

 

Waou!! What in the blazing hell were _that_?? Someone shouting, anyroad, come from the house, sounded like – like an order, but at this bleeding time of night?!

 

Was it at _me_? Oh shitters if someone – like dashed _Durham_ \- saw me hanging round outside the house at night cackling away to myself, they'd probably take me for a house-breaker, until they come and grabbed me, and even then they likely wouldn't be assured!

 

I've now leaped into the nearest hedge, a prickly one at that, holly off season, and eased myself over to a strong tree trunk, strong enough for me to press my back to and breathe some – if I thought my heart were hammering afore! I could direct my massive eyes back to the manor but I'd be feared I'd meet someone's gaze. No, best just to get my nerve back and slink away stealthy. Not that I have a single thing to feel guilty about.

 

Well, no obviously _visible_ thing.

 

Now that I'm slinking away, I chance a glance house-wards. It did sound – the voice – kind of desperate and angry and dangerous. Hardly a domestic, knowing the master and mistress as meek and polite to each other as visiting ladies. That'd be a delicious scandal if they did have a barney, right in the middle of him's canvassing and with visitors next door to boot! Were it someone getting chewed out? Sally, Bert, or Milly even? Still, in the wee small hours like so? Moonlight I start backwards walking, still windows-watching, thinking, but there's no-one there, not a candle in the window... Whole thing's sent a shiver and a tension right across my shoulders. Race to the boathouse. I think I might actually go home tonight, if I can find the short cut in the dark.

 

Who was it?

 

 

  


 


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

 

Mr. Hall and Mr. London are away to the city this morning, and the first of my orders was to wait outside at the front porch smartly so that they don't have to. My feet are very sore, as was my ma last night when she copped the state of me, like I'd been “rolling in a blood-bath”, if such a thing is even real! Rabbits sweetened her up somewhat; she's tossed them into a stew.

 

Drip drip dripping down on my head and shoulders is the roof's remainder of yesterday's rain; I could move out of its path but it's trickling down all over the front terrace almost like an actual shower. No point, and at any rate it's likely I'll spend another day soaked to the skin.

 

A-looking up at the rafters, I cannot help but groan a bit at the cracks therein and the weeds growing through that just can't be passed off as atmospheric old ivy (which is a parasite and all by the way! But the toffs love it!) or sweeping, hanging vines. It's grass and dandelions, both approaching their prime seed-dispersing season. Ah here, look at this place. Some-one should climb up there and pluck those weeds, or have a go at them with some poison. Not me of course. That be for the house-keeper or the grounds-keeper; I've a hard enough time a-keeping the rabbits at bay and don't have time to be fiddling around up on ladders. Seems I'm practically the only one with my eyes peeled nowadays regarding the absolute state of disrepair old Penge has slidden sodden into. Perhaps it's because I'm not here long? The master and his crowd pretend not to notice, so focussed are they on their own bafflements. That tall Mr. Hall on whom I looked on so kind yesterday rather spoiled my impression of him by offering me money. I dislike tips at unspecific times; feels like charity for simply looking the way I do.

 

Mind you, he didn't look too impressed when I 'declined politely' with a “No, thankee, Sir” and a snotty look eastward, at the rainclouds coming in from the seaboard and a very particular _lack_ of a tip of the hat. But fuck him, you know? I'm not here to impress him. And it's all just as well. Though my jaw did set a little and the guilt in my guts made itself known, right briefly, as he made his exasperated noises and swept back inside. I bet he thinks I'm that kind of un-educated swine what doesn't know his arse from his elbow. But who had to practically show him which end of a gun to aim at a target yesterday might I enquire? It's come to nothing though. I twist my head around to try and liberate my neck from its pains. Still it rains.

 

Looking worse and worse for weather as the morning wears on, Christ where is that carriage?! I'm main anxious to get on to real work – hullo? What's this??

 

Ah here!! This London fellow is smirking at me right magnumental with a dashed coin extended to me. What is this – a game? Trying to make me look a right ill-bred scut wot doens't respect his betters or summat? Oho, now they've gone and got me peckers up. Condescend to me, will you? Offer me money, like I was that keen on't? Maybe I'll take it this time! What'll that do to your little game!

 

I reach out and take the money with a daft smile and a doff of the cap this time and a look in the eyes right doleful and grateful. Immediately and without looking down I can tell that it's a sovereign this time; would that I got paid this much generally for keeping. I keep impassive in the face although I'm unsure whether this is a trick or no. Pocketing it I return my gaze to the end of the driveway, and London pulls his raised eyebrows back inside, no doubt adding and subtracting how much tax he's owed on this thus charitable donation.

 

Crows are cawing overhead and there's still the near certainty of thunder -

 

“Hello! So! Five shillings aren't enough! So you'll only take gold!” Good God Blimey!!! Suddenly it's Mr. Hall a-bursting out of the front door all-fired excited. Jumping out of my skin, about, I turn to his irate and lovely face, dis-jointed enough by his presence before I can even untangle what he's roared at me. People are always screaming and shouting around here, it plays _wicked_ on the nerves! Whipping my finger to my mouth and biting it in what the school-master called my old boyish habit of shame and submission, I try and clear my throat in face of his steely expectant stare and attempt to reply, but he is thus and immediate distracted by Lord and Lady Muck. With he turning from me completely to the lady – and a mite nicer he is to her, I notice - I step away and down the steps to the mercifully arrived carriage.

 

He's gotten it all wrong, he has.. it isn't more money or strife I'm after.

 

Chattering away, the master and his cronies helpfully glide out of the way while the house help come out with the suit-cases. I help the young under-butler Charlie with one especially heavy black case; in fact he lets go with a grin when I grab one one end of it and disappears back into the house. As I bring it to the trap and heave it in, Mr. Hall rather deliberately unhelpful, orders me to do the very thing I'm in the middle of doing as only men in suits seem predisposed to do. I hope the blush on my face will be taken for ruddy out-door exertive-ness – or the weight of this suitcase.

 

After I've duly stuck it in and the city-goers have alighted their carriage I can't even summon the energy or the sense to remove or tip my hat again. Rather I drift backwards towards the orchards that line the driveway, where I first saw him, and hope to blend misty back into the general grounds, and my general duty, before I'm spotted and given another excruciating direct order. Hands, pockets, I swivel -

 

Yet...

 

Although...

 

How-and-ever...

 

... But that loud and desperate, commanding and demanding tone of voice of his... Have not I heard it before? Impulsive, _again_ , as if I could stop myself, I couldn't, I run and run and run through the edge of the orchard, sliding on puddles and tripping on roots dodging branches ripping my pumping shirtsleeves un-care-ishly on the dog rose thorns, all the way to the end of the drive to see him off, only to see him seeing me off. We lock eyes and I, panting for breath, feel shamed and energized all at once; he tilts his head wondering and wobbling in the hansom. Staring till the mist overtakes, I don't want to follow but I feel more warmer than I did all morning. In the mood for it, I run and run to the sheds to fetch the barrow, buckets, spades, shovels and sandbags for to restore some qualities of lawn to the garden. I wipe from my brow as much sweat as rainwater.

 

London must be a main fascinating place, if not person.

 

 

  



	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

 

What a bitch of a day it's been so far. After that morning... I've been in terrible bad form and it's because of this blooming weather. As soon as I get started on something, that is to say, when I commence to mopping up the back of the drive, or clearing away the puddles from the horse-track, or drying off the outside machinery, than it starts raining _again_ and I get to see the fruits of my labour shine over, fill up and slowly start its rusting right before my very eyes. What's more I were out on the glosh road having brung several barrows' worth of roughly-medium sized stones out to the hollow, where the carriages always go down, down on their wheels and are the very devil to extract with the drivers a-blustering and blowing. Incidentally I did have a right royal row with Davey, the under-groundskeeper, over the nature of this problem; I rightly maintained that as the old beaten track was part of the _grounds_ , then it's only fair and right and just that it's his sodding duty to fill the hole. He rejoined that he'd fill my hole (!!) because it were the _fucking_ rabbits again that weakened that section of road with their burrowing, and though I've them chased out with me heart broken, the damage remains.

I think I must have lost the argument even though I was completely in the correct, and I got the last word and all, last words, roaring at Davey's retreating back and raised fingers. I lost the argument because Ayres came along and demanded that I get along to the woods quick sharp and start loading up stones to fill that hollow or else. I huffed and puffed away my un-pleasure at this lack of fairness but again off I ran. When a fella spends all the live long day being ordered hither tither and yon fixing everyone else's mis-doings, it's no wonder he starts to go funny and fevered and queer at intervals. It's simple science.

And seeing as how you ask, not that you have, but all the same, I haven't been all aggrieved and sulky and shameful and sorry about what happened this morning with Mr. Hall. Except, every so often, not often, only whenever I stopped to take a breath or a step or a doleful stare into the distance. Which, alright, were pretty frequently as this road, when horse-less, is main ignored and abandoned, leading nowhere diverting as it do, merely through some un-farmable and really un-walkable marsh-way full of all kinds of game which we cannae go near, shooting-wise. Not that I ever ever _would_ , you understand, if'n an animal is rare and harmless why I'm a real humanitarian. Just last week I were creeping around, doing me rounds and I heard a definite curlew – that's distinctive, that is, and on-common to boot, so I was of a mind to come back and find the little feller and draw him out and sketch him, but no-one I told were interested. Their loss!

Soon as I get my hands on my first big earnings on the Argentine, after I've seen the sights and shown myself a good time of course, I'm going to do something right sensible and get myself a decent pair of boots. This set on my feet haven't seen better days, they've seen better _decades._ That's how ruddy old they are. What happened to vex me was that I was toiling away with these rocks, having dug them sweaty and straining out of the forest, and wheeled them painstaking to the glosh hollow, I was pitching them in and fussing over them to make them sit somewhat even. You use too small of a stone, they sink traceless and useless down the mud. Big rocks will just send the carriage wheels sky-bound. I digress. Constantly, I do.

Now I'm dragging the wheel-barrow behind me, the spade and shovel a-clattering around inside and I cen let it do, because there's no-one about to be offended by the noise of working. To tell the truth it's right lonely out on the glosh road by oneself, at first its alright the birds and all, but right now I wouldn't mind some human company that would enliven if not brighten my day. It all depends on who I run into here at the side of the house.. I keep my eyes peeled for Sally although I know she's probably inside. Sliding my eyes to the upper windows, I slow down and peer, squinting again' the fading light. I'd better get a wriggle on, afore it gets too dark to do anything round the grounds. I'd not justify, on my own, the use of an oil-lamp!

 

 

 

  


 


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

 

Damn and blast! Fuck and balls it!! It's practically dinner time and I haven't been dismissed yet; Ayres has buggered off somewhere after warning me stern-like to finish all my jobs for once and not to pull a vanishing-act. What's on him anyroad! It's late; what game is there about the place that I need seeing to at this time of dusk? I should have insisted on a – a contract of work when I took the position. That's what Freddie says. He brung me one for my new job in the Argentine; it'll be wonderful to have more say over my own career and conditions. I didn't read it or anything, bleddy thing were over two pages long, but I signed it all right. Now I am part of social revolution.

Surely Ayres weren't implying that I set up the overnight traps _now_? Can't they wait until the morning? He also gave me the flaming evil eyes when I had to fess up about the lack of a ferret; the ferret that were lost yesterday on the hunt that were in no shape or form my fault. He actually ordered me to go _look_ for the ferret, despite my insistations that he were long gone to seek his fortune elsewhere and fair fucks to him. Okay I only thought those thoughts while I bit my lip around sullen. Come to think on it, this place is so infested with rabbits that he might well return! I'll have to keep me eyes peeled – HEY! There he is!

No, not the ferret. Mr. Hall has drifted into view from between two of the blossoming trees in the orchard like something out of a dream. A certain kind of dream. Oh help! I were that rude to him this morning. All a-flustered, I back behind a bush and watch him, as he strolls very slowly forward, frowning at the ground, hands in his pockets, fag in his mouth right contemplative.. He looks exhausted, again, beaten right down, and yet those eyes are burning into the lawn he's directing them at, and you can just tell his thoughts are darting around his brain like the flies that surround us in the lamp-lights that Davey lit a half-hour ago. I'm grateful to this as Mr. Hall looks right dashing in this light – the moon wouldn't be half enough to appreciate him by.

I lick my anxious lips.

 

My word, I really must straighten things out between us, not that there's much of an us, but there's social niceties that exist external and fast... Besides which, I really want to make nice with him and not just because he's a friend of the squire's – a good friend, or so I've heard tell, but I wonnot judge him there, how could I? Mostly I just want to try him out when he's in a mellower form, and talk to him, and discover what fascinates me so, and if he arouses nothing in me maybe I could put him out of my mind altogether! I doubt it, somehow. I want to apologize for those wretched shillings, I should have taken them, yes, but for some reason I couldn't bear extending the distance between us by acknowledging the vast financial differences. Out here in the open, where the trees are dripping down their collected rain and the flies about and the bats and the birds and the night wild coming to life.. we're only two men.

 

I piano my fingers on the bark as he wanders about, and finally walk over so as to run into him casual and unruffled, like.

“Evenin', sir,” and I doff, the usual. He looks over, startled. Instinctive I smile. “Wasn't sure whether you'd be back so soon. You and your company will be shooting again, tomorrow, I take it? I can has it all set up like this morning.” I am loathe to even mention the disaster that was this morning's hunt, but the one good thing about it is that it _was_ a point of interaction between us and now therefore something we have in common, like as not. Suddenly I want to do all I can to encourage more inter-action. Even if it involves, as it will, my waiting on him hand and foot, damn it I have to be near him! I know, of course, there'll be no hunting because -

“Isn't tomorrow the cricket match? That'll take up quite enough time I should imagine!” I wince at this reply but maybe he isn't referring to my workload but his own duty in engaging with Durham's little publicity stunts. He certainly doesn't look in the mood for sporting activity, in terms of mood, like.. Physically, on the other hand... I swallow and manage,

“Oh yes sir, indeed it is of course, are you looking forward to it?” I am, for one, but I don't think Maurice and I are quite at the level of intimacy where I can say so, matily and goose him a little. Heaven forfend! Still, the cricket. Even if it is a load of nonsense, the masters and the help all playing together, it should be a bit of a laugh and a heck load more fun than chasing rabbits about and bashing down birds' nests and clearing up dog crap.

Mr. Hall is non-committal. “Mmmm.” Pulling teeth would be easier, as my Ma would say.

He looks at me expectant. I'm urged to mirror him wi'me hands in me pockets, but as I say, I don't want this to get too jovial, lest I get into actual trouble. So I wrap my fingers about themselves behind my back and apologize about the morning's misunderstanding. I knew, even at the time that he didn't mean the offering as a sneer or even as a mark of friendship, but I certainly acted a cad about it. I don't elaborate this far though. My meaning is clear. Isn't it?

With a tight smile, sad around the eyes, he says it's alright and speaks me by name. So I know it's alright, but still I feel like grovelling some more and say:

“Regarding that offer of your'n, sir, I must impress that it were unnecessary and too generous of you, for I was only doing my duty which I am glad to do.” Suddenly this seems true, I was glad to be trailing around him in the mud all day. Money sullied it. This surprises me still; the realization that he has so much influence over me, with nary a notion of it, causes my guts to twist. _HELP_

Unable to help myself, for a change, I more or less tell him that I'm happy to see him, coupled with a strong, intense gaze, take my _meaning_ sir. Perhaps too intense as he stiffens (his shoulders and stature, mind yourself), before repeating off-hand and deliberate that it's alright, and disappearing inside, tossing his fag, wiping his feet on the mat careful, smoothing his hair in preparation for encountering any ladies, and I take myself and my poor confused heart off to the pavilion to try and sluice more rain-water off of the green. A sorry-looking game of cricket it shall be, this rate.

 

  



	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

 

I might as well have come to work in the nip, for all the water I've been wading about in all day, and my clothes a hindrance! Not being the most expensive material, either, I'm aware that they might fall apart, about me, possibly at an inopportune moment... I feel the oxters of my jacket and the seat of my pants ginger to see if I'm still decent, in the most basic sense anyway. Covered. Back down at the boathouse, I – ah HERE! The boat's all _through_ with water! I thought I had it tied secure underneath the tree canopy? It must have been lashing enough to fill it still. Wouldn't you sodding know it. Where's me buckets? I tossed them over in the bracken when I got back from finishing on the cricket pitch... Christ it's constant punishment! Although.. the buckets swing, the wind goes through the tree branches and across the surface of the pond, gentle-like... Although, yes. Maybe I should send up a respectful suggestion to Mr. Hall. Maybe I _shouldn't_ , more like, but fortune favours the brave after all!! Smiling sudden, I look at the boat, wobbling on the water and slide my gaze towards the moon shining on the windows of the boat-house. I give the boat a final, futile wipe and I'm away back to the house, to the butler, at topspeed. Squilch squilch squilch

 

 

 

  


 


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

 

My giddy aunt...! Did I sign on for a sermon? Did I have a choice in the matter?? Here I was waiting in the kitchen leaning with me arms crossed and me ankles too, leaning on the aga, listening to Mrs. D and Kitty gabbin' away women-like, waiting for the thumbs-up from Mr. Hall, so to speak, as it were. I'm half wondering if it's un-gentlemanly of me to have caged a fag off of a woman, but then again, if it is, then it's suitable to me, isn't it? No manners are expected and none given. I tap the ashes out on top of the range behind my back as the others scrub and scrape at some blackened-looking pots.

“I'm telling you, so I am,” carols Mrs. D, “that the help, of the help, is _useless_ these days, what I wouldn't do for that so-called girls' employment agency to send over a girl with more than fudge for brains.. Each and every one of them has been worse than useless! I tell you, letting the potatoes boil over and the pudding burn to the pot!”

“I _know_ , Mrs. D!” says Kitty, scraping away whole-sale with a chisel at the bottom of the pot. After a beat, she says, “Wait a minute, _I_ were sent over from that Mrs. Bloom's agency...!”

I snort out a laugh and she looks at me as if for assistance. I merely look deliberately at the celling and blow out some smoke, and wait for Mrs. Dolly's inevitable back-pedalling... She's far too shrewd to fall out with someone to their _face,_ even a lowly pot-scourer and an inadequate pot-watcher... with a nice enough arse, at least when she's bent over the soapy sink and getting that water all over herself! Look how good I'm being, saying nothing of the sort but merely thinking it.

“Of course, Kathy, I didn't mean _you_ , dear...”

“.... Kitty...”

“Kitty Cat,” I can't resist adding with a wink and she shoots me a look of confusion and embarrassment and hope. Whoops, Alec, dial it back! Try and not have too many fingers in too many pies at the once! And anyways, Mrs. D has a point; old Kitty isn't the sharpest tool in the shed and it has occurred to me lately that someone with a measure of smartness and intelligence and poise excites me more than silly little dalliances. It's why Sal interests me most at the moment, though she's smartly trodden on my intentions with her own ambitions of marrying high. Still, plenty off fish off the wharf. Now if only I myself could measure up to such a person.

So here I am minding my own and waiting for a word from Mr. Hall – no, was the word, as it happens, dash him – when from behind Simcox in totters that Reverend Borenius who immediately (and loudly) assumes that the room at large has had their Holy Orders? Well? There's a murmur of assent from the women and Simcox raises his eyebrows at me and it dawns, too late, that this casual visit to the kitchen is for my particular benefit. Meeting the reverend's piercing gaze as he approaches the big table where I do have my lunch general, I keep my arms crossed tight on my chest and puff away at my fag, moving it round with my mouth only in order to blow out more smoke. Determined as I am to meet the old bible-basher head on I do nonetheless curb the smoke a bit out of automatic politeness (If'n my _Ma_ should see...!) and resulting I choke on it. Fucking thing!!

“Nasty habit!” says the Rev, awkwardly manoeuvring himself onto the bench at the table. Likely he's not used to such rudimentary seating. Kindly waiting until I've coughed myself hoarse, he adds, “Won't you join me, boy?” And gestures at the table. I'd rather do about anything. So I go and sit.

“Now!” and he leans back some, and cleans his glasses, replaces them, and locks his fingers on the table between us. Slouching opposite, I keep my hands in my pockets deliberately. I can feel, though I don't look, _feel_ Simcox practically emitting steam from his nostrils at this impertinence, but a look, a nod from Borenius sends him marching. Mrs. D says, “Well it looks as though we should be setting the cooking fires to rest,” and away she trips too, gathering her skirts and gathering poor Kitty who had not enough cop-on to leave off her own bat. I close my eyes and steel myself, and as the tittering fades he launches.

“My boy – Scudder, isn't it?”

“'Tis, sir – er, Reverend.”

“Aha yes. Yes we must observe decorum. Such behaviour and social mores as you have learned here at Penge among such esteemed people will serve you well when you are abroad.”

“Will they? Kind of thought there'd be a whole different set of rules out foreign, Sir. In fact I'd be hoping so – expand me horizons like.” His mouth sets unhappily. This could actually be enjoyable.

“ _Ahem._ But so many of our conventions are universal – though they are of course perfected here in England they are relevant everywhere. Indeed, it would be your duty as an Englishman to represent your country in a manner of the utmost propriety and pride in one's work... and ah, not just work..” Oh Lord. Get to the point old man.

“Experience! Experience and exploration are of course, the very essence of the richness of life... travelling around the world and spreading our knowledge has helped build the Empire in which we live today. Without being, shall we say, infiltrated by less palatable practices...” Oh dear. I mustn't be half as smart as I thought I were. Wots he on about? This is the classroom all over again and I'm once again in the back with me hands in me pockets and a scowl and half an eye on the clock.

“It was St. Augustine, was it not, who observed, that 'the world is a book, and those who do not travel read only one page.'”

Alec: “I don't read much books.” Seems an unnecessary addendum. He knows.

Anyways he's not bothered. “But we must heed the words of St. Paul, as we journey through the world and through life, he who urged us to 'flee from sexual immorality. All other sins a person commits are outside the body, but whoever sins sexually, sins against their own body.'”

Poker-facing, but my heart hammers. How much does he know? Why does he _care_?!

I cross my arms again for defence, and cross my jiggling ankle over my knee and lean back away from him. Careful, Scudder. Don't let him rise ya!

“It is not his intention – nor the intention of the Church, you understand, Scudder, to warn the young _away_ from – from placating the pleasures of the flesh. Rather, it is imperative to steer these predilections in the right direction. Else-where, the Apostle would encourage the Ephesians in the manner that 'husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave Himself up for her.'”

“Wot!” I squawk, surprised genuine, and leaning forward, “Is the Church a girl now? Blimey. Wouldn't take much persuading to bring myself along to worship if that were the case! Ha! Ha!”

Red with frustration, the reverend replies, “If you are so determined to avoid the larger and more significant impressions, and insist upon straight meaning -”

I slap the table. “I am and I do, Reverend.”

“Then I must communicate my wish and the wish of society general that a young man as yourself in your fortuitous but thus _wasted_ position could do worse than taking himself – and giving himself to – a wife. Singular.” This has produced him sweating. I suppose I can be very difficult when I want to. School reports always said so.

“A wife! And me just about to leave for the Argentine? What would I do with her out there? What would she do with me gone all day working? Hob-nob with the natives?”

“In this day, she would perhaps work, as a woman like this would no doubt be the kind you are already – acquainted with..”

Derisive I snort. “Out there?! No wife of mine is a-going to be out labouring, in that hot sun. I wouldn'ae have it. She'd have to be at home minding the childer, can't leave them on they own, a mother is that important.” I do believe this but I'm speaking now, as he was earlier, completely objectively. I'm not imagining any sort of future like the one I'm espousing.

Finally he seems more satisfied. “So you have plans to marry?”

I shrug. As true an answer to that question as any.

“Very good, my boy, very good! And surely you must know, when regarding the Holy Sacrament of Marriage, how important it is to treat such a union with the religious reverence it was originally bestowed with? So often forgotten and forsaken nowadays...”   
And he's off again with his voicing. I unfold my left ankle from my right knee, stretch, and proceed to pop my right ankle on my left knee. He's not even looking at me as he's trying to save my soul!! Maybe my soul isn't in my body. Maybe it floats around after you. An attack of the shivers across my shoulders and I look around the kitchen anxiously, absurdly.

“.. and there are Sacraments that must be performed, on _both_ partners, prior to the marriage and the most important of that being the confirmation to the Christian faith, which is a blessing which will stay with you always, and ensure the Church be your guiding light...”

Finally we've gotten to the meat of the conversation, conversion!

Well I haven't the foggiest intention. Off-hand like, I interrupt him mid- ramble:

“ - oh yes, Reverend, I'll get right to that, soon as I find a girl who'll have me I'll get - what is it? Oh, conferred, and all those trappings. But I've a fair bit on this weather, you see, what with the bleddy rain, and the rabbits and the river about to bust its borders and the cricket and all, but of course I'll consider all you've said..” Need to get out of here. Even at church of a Sunday morning there's the comfort that it'll be over in an hour; let liberal the way he is now old Boring-ius would yammer and flap until Doomsday. I imagine it'd be his preferred way to go!

Standing, looking down on his displeasure, one hand on my hip and the other a-touching my cap, I thank him again as he glares, sighs, and waves me on.

Escape!! I saunter to the door and once there tear away like the bat out of hell.

 

Jesus H. Christ, don't put me through that aga -

WHOA!! A-looking behind me as I was racing along I didn't see what was right in front of me in my path and it's Mr. Hall, again him, I don't think I can talk to him right now and I merely grab him _wonderful_ about his strong, unprepared arms, swing round him quick and away I go. As much as I want, as I _long_ , I can't think of what I'd say to him right now, after my refusal of the tip. After his refusal to bathe. Deliberate obstinance with each other. Our damned inability to get on the same track... I slow down.

Though, weren't we on the same path, worn dirt path through the gardens, just now.. It feels wrong and wrenching to run away from him. Panting, I turn my head but not my body, lest he be idly watching, but I peer into nothing but darkness. I keep panting and hunker down against a tree to assess everything that's been thrust upon me this last hour. Closing my eyes, I know unfailing that the thing that had the deepest, the dearest impact upon me was nothing Borenius said or implied, but the strong, tangible, smooth, jacket sleeve-covered arms of Mr. Hall. How I wish they would impact my body as well as my heart.

 

 

 

  



	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

 

Not feeling like leaving, yet, as something seems to be left un-done, and probably has been, if I were to ask Simcox, work-wise, but this is something different. I kick the tree in frustration and decide to take a shufti inside in the house again, because I can't keep away. When I arrive at the back door, I see Kitty on her ownsome and I loom back into the darkness lest she and I get into a conversation between us and one thing should lead to another... can't say it's not happened to me afore! Wouldn't the reverend be proud if he were to see me hiding from a girl in the shadows of the back lawn bushes, deliberately extracting myself from temptation's path.

This angers me somehow, actually, and I feel a rush of defiance and disobedience; why should that dried up old bugger dictate how _I_ am to behave and relate to other people? Further: him trying to tell me how I should feel. Well, fuck him, and fuck anyone who'd just as soon spit in my eye as look on me and here I am trying to kowtow to their expectations!

“Oh crackers!” Kitty is in the process of throwing out the dishwater from the wooden half-barrel in her hands and she accidentally pours most of it over her shoes and stockings. I close my eyes and consider that it's no wonder that any dreams I can remember these nights all involve gushing, rushing, wild and swirling waters, on me around me.. over my head... This whole place may as well be underwater; how much better it shall be and _I_ shall be where it's dry and unchanging and always sunny! Once I survive the trip there, over a vast expanse of ocean.. Chills.

For now I'm glad I'm here at Penge; for some reason tonight it feels like the centre of the earth. Something's a-brewing – I feel it in my fingers.

 

 

Wandering down in no particular straight line towards the orchard, looking around, hands in pants pockets, I pass underneath a second-story window, ajar, with a light emanating and a voice too, a girl's voice, nice, singing, soothing, sounds so pretty and neat, it must be Sally, I think it is, couldn't be any Durham, that relaxed and released and reassured in her contentment.

“The boy I love, is up the gallery; the boy I love, is looking down at me -” trills the voice and I can't help but smile and hum also, joining in for only my own amusement,

“..There he is! Can't you see, a-waving his handkerchief, as merry as a robin-n-n- that sings on a tree..” _What_ a pretty happy voice! Hers ain't half bad neither. Ha-ha. Lovely.. everything seems to have taken on a sheen tonight, and I don't mean the wet that the rain has left on everything from leaves to walls to windows! I breathe in the flowery scents and the mown grass and the sharp fresh air, warmer tonight owing to a bare breeze from the south and therefore warm. It blows my hair about and I let it. It blows the smoke back from my fag as I amble along and I fancy it's like the huge puffs of smoke coming from the chimneys of the steamer as it cleaves the sea in two on its merry way. Excitement builds inside me once again and I wish I had a lass to dance with, dance now, dance only, she singing or laughing and someone else playing the piano..

“..but I haven't got a penny, so we'll live on love and kisses, and be just as happy as the birds on the tree...”

 

 

 

 

 

 

  


 


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

 

Tonight I can't leave, but I can't seem to calm down long enough to stay in one place either! Pausing every so often to listen, listen, turn back towards the towering house and strain my ears for anything encouraging – clink of glasses, the pushing of a chair, the sharp snap of a match being lit for a cigarette, the first suck of the fag... but no-one's there. Faraway I hear a dog bark, and the night outside with its dripping trees and ground's wet leaves and shining puddles and moths darting around the night-lamps.. I don't have to wait long before my bootheels get to-wandering again and away I stumble down to the orchard, where it all began... It... Oh Alec there is no 'it'! There is me, and there is him but he is _there_ and ever _shall_ be there and not here, with me, word without end, amen! But my excitement refuses to be dampened. Contrary. Energy. He might as well be on the moon but I feel as though I could still reach him, tonight.

 

And... I slow and stroll carefully through the orchard, taking in the smells of the fruit and blossoms and grass and coming rain, and feeling the damp leaves against my face and my wet socks squishing in my boots, that somehow feel comforting like walking over a mossbawn. Panting, stepping and peering, though I feel like running! Were I at home now, like where I'm supposed to be, I could round up a few of the lads and see about having a kickabout. That would be a great way to use these nerves that are jumping round and round me. Nothing like it. If even just firing the ball against the wall, or practicing penalties! Here though, haven't I put my finger in my own eye? The only people about and willing to engage _here_ are the damn reverend, and Simcox, and Ayres, all shouldering each other to be the next one to get me to do something! I trail round and round trees, wishing I did have a ball to at least practice dribbling. Though I suppose it's my cricketing skills I should be fine-tuning, and as a matter of fact, the gear I should be setting up, really... Yes, for once I should like to jump into something work related and bully my brain into concentrating on something, _anything,_ other than.. But I'll have to be up tomorrow at the crack of dawn to help prepare anyway, no sense doing the sorting now – won't be thanked for it! There's being workshy and there's being a creeper and neither the twain should ye be! There might be some drying between now and the mornin' anyroad. Concentrate on that, on tomorrow, not tonight, long night...

 

Hmm, that peach up there looks good and smells great... do I dare...? And I might as well..

 

 

  



	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

 

...Thud.. thud.. thud.. thud... that's my heart a-beating thundering, as I lean against the kitchen wall, for a breather, for a rest, just to eavesdrop on the happenings in the kitchen, for to eat this quiet before I gather my wits and bits and take myself off to bed somewhere, like a good boy, like I _will_ , but really, really I'm waiting. In case you can't tell, my heart is beating that hard, pumping that blood so fast and powerful I can't control, I can hear it and practically feel my body jutting from it. Trembling I bring the apricot I'm in the middle of closer and lick it, bring it into my mouth, bite it .. I got a bit carried away on the orchard and may have an upset stomach in the morning! Though even now it gurgles a bit and I adjust my legs, close my eyes and chew, and look into the darkness; it seems to awaken the imagination even further even though I can barely see now. Lamps are slowly going out, the moon is risen but only sporadically appearing from the clouds; the evening is ended and the night is under-way. Really I should shake my head, stretch myself standing, and propel myself to the boat-house to bed in for tomorrow's early start, but- but- but- to go there, alone, and lie there staring out the window, alone and still wondering – I can't! But I should!

 

Hang what I should. I know what I want. But it's not just up to me.

 

Exacting the last of the apricot juice from my fingers, I look up and am caught only slightly on the hop, and not as uneasy as I should be, as the sensible man should be, to see Mr. Hall and the reverend slowly walking towards me, on the path that passes me. In the night I can't make them out too well and can really only distinguish a tall man, striding and a smaller fellow, dragging. But I know who they are from familiarity and though I have been somewhat loutish towards both of them, I hope to think I left no ill will and with a controlled effort to decrease my heart-rate, I bid them a respectful good-night. This went down fairly well with Mr. Borenius who afforded me a dispassionate wave of his hand as he went on his way. Mr. Hall I can't see too well and I'm not sure if I was even gifted a similarly bare-bones acknowledgement.

 

Alone again, I pick anxiously at my teeth to hunt for the seeds that I'm sure are in there, when I hear a twig snapping under a soft tread and he's back, coming back to the house this way and more visible as he passes deliberately near to the shrubbery, no doubt drawn in by that fragrance. Would that I had such blatant, benevolent power. Taking a nose-ful of that sweet scent myself, I step carefully towards him, carefully because I still can't see very well and have to wave my arms about to avoid the trees, and carefully also because I want to talk to him friendly like, coax him and not frighten him off. Seems so likely but again, needs must. I haven't hung round here for what seems like an eternity to just stand and stare at his dark moving outline, at this ethereal hour and atmosphere. Nowt to lose!

 

Approaching, quietly, but suddenly I don't feel as nervous anymore, only rushed with affection, and I wish him another ginger good night. Again I feel hardly surprised when he turns to me, and engages with me receptively and rather dreamily. He knows of my plans to emigrate and to tell the truth I feel almost as if I'm already gone, like a ghost, and I wonder if he senses the dissonance? I'm nearly away, but right now I'm here sir, really here, remind me that I am and that I matter.. As he leaves he crashes into me again, I being on his path and thus unavoidable; I steady him and he me and I swivel round out of his way again and squeeze his elbows so much tighter than before, then releasing him and watching him walk his slow, sad gait into the house. Hands in pockets, head held high, nose in the air.. Disappearing.

 

I am in utter confusion and despair, on the cusp of something. Twice now I've nearly held him in my arms; in a couple of short days I have dreamed of him about a hundred times more often than I've seen him.

 

The Argentine.. that he would think to bring that up at this time, I'd almost forgotten! I've nearly forgotten what my own home is like above the butchers. So this is coming to an end.. England for him, but not for me. Yet it is for me for now, tonight.

 

Fox cries in the distance and my neck jerks, where was that from? The eastern woodland?

 

Blowing out a puff of cold air, I strain my ears.

  



	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

 

Fierce longing. Thinking of him disappearing, beautiful, un-confident, into that house, with no idea that I was boring into him, loving him burning through the darkness. Am I to read anything into him? He seemed pleased to pass a minute or two with me. I need more from him, oh so much more. Reciprocity? Doubting? Is it because I'm so lowly? Is that the barrier or isn't it? Is there even a barrier? Perhaps there's nothing but, not even a sniff of a chance for us. It doesn't bother _me_ that he's well-classed; I'd forgive him it. Men that are high-born, wealthy, sophisticated.. they're like women, they wear too many clothes that conceal and confine them. Costumes, almost, to dictate how they conduct themselves and how the rest of use should do well to respect them.

Think of the last girl I were with, fully with, a lassie I was picking mushrooms with back outside the village beside our'n. She had cap, coat, cardigan, apron, dress, petticoats, smock, stockings, knickers, corset, why even gloves when I took her out to a show and she got the hat and parasol out! Each a pleasure to remove, of course, but such a burden I wouldn't want to endure daily. She were all the more eager to get stripped for having to cart all of these garments around all day, or so I fancy, so she could be free in the night!

Just for a dinner he were attired in a suit, with jacket, waistcoat, slacks, shirt, brogues, under-shirt no doubt, ties, hankies, cuff-links... each and every article I'd like to liberate him from slowly, reveal that warm pale skin, that strong but idle body. Needs to be put to good use.

 

Alright, so he's just about delightful. So? Oh Alec. What can be done about it, really? Blowing out another cold blast of air, I think about our acquaintanceship, our connexion, such as it is. I've only really seen Mr. Hall a handful of times, barely met him, surely don't _know_ him, but ... to me he feels like – even if he isn't one, he reminds me of, though I didn't think he'd exist – an increasingly dear friend. Ever increasing. It'd be good to have a mate. But a gentleman...! They don't know the first thing about real life! Then again me and 'real life' have somewhat parted company of late so I'm one to talk on it. Had me head in the clouds since... well, since it were decided, the Argentine. Weightless.

 

Every time I've saw Mr. Hall, and drank him up, probably not even the sum total of twenty minutes, I get more and more horrifyingly fond of him and interested in his welfare. Whereas, with, say, Fred, whom I've spent likely thousands of hours in the jostling company of, I wish would fall into the lake!!

Maurice. I want to take care of him, make sure he's alright always, he seems so lost, despite his dressage and cigarette holder and neatly parted hair. Lip biting, I want him to take care of me too, strong arms around me, say I needn't go anywhere, least of all hundreds of miles away on the unfamiliar, only stay here safe and enfolded, leafy and warm and balmy, soft grass underfoot.

 

WHY?? Kicking the nearest tree and toppling a few apples, I leave them for the crows although I shouldn't. Why? I fancy him, obviously. But – why this – torrent of confusion? Good God almighty, I'm 'most in tears, this is intolerable! I've fancied lads afore. Not that I'd shout it from the rooftops but I've had time with some of 'em, why not, secret, and others that I were more leery about I just forgot about. Certainly didn't spend days mooning about the place all muddled and bowled-over.

 

I rather hate him for it... I'm not supposed to be peering into Penge windows, squinting at the likes of people I don't like and won't miss; I'm _supposed_ to be wrapping things up here and focussing on pastures new, when I'm gone away forever.

 

Walking sort of drunkenly, haphazardly around the kitchen gardens, certain that everyone is gone away asleep in bed, I frown my eyebrows, anxiously bite my finger-nails and relish the sulky and belligerent feelings washing over me, from the toes upwards. Aye, what about _me_ in all this? All we've gone through, bitter it tastes now, and what is there to show for it. I've pushed and pushed him ever since yesterday. I've spoke to him, helped him hunting and toting his belongings around, I've refused his money to try and express that I don't want to be beholden, not I. I've tried to get him on his own with the offering to see to his bathing. I've waylaid him, talking, I've hung around pining outside his window. What have I gotten back? Without coming right out with it, I've thrown out all the signals and he's so reserved and impossible.

 

DAMN, it's just one of those priggish ways, putting on airs and graces and a cover of stone. What's he really like alone in his room? Underneath his clothes? Have I really been so wrong that his eyes actually looked on me kindly, and even maybe appreciatively – a look I recognize so well from across a bar-room or marketplace or indeed orchard. I need something in return, Hall! Where's that good old British, marching, what'd they call it, epirit de corps! You want me!! If we could only connect in a place, or a way that's far away from this place but bound he is..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Heart thumping**

 

Need to just let this run its course, that's it, it's just a fever after all, let it go – I'm still in control, haven’t yet made a fool of myself and no-one knows.

 

 

 

 

 

  


 


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday !

Chapter 25

 

Sometimes it feels like I'm the only person on this old ancient earth.

Swishing through the heavy damp grass, I look round sharpish for any movement, any life.

 

I don't go for foxes usually, sporting like, as a matter of fact I'd rather they stayed around and helped de-cline the rabbit population but the foxes has been going for the kitchen rabbits and the hens and knocking over the bins right untidy and

 

“Come!!”

 

Straight across my shoulder blades that voice once again! Like a gunshot, a bullet right through me! I know what it is now! I know who it is! Voice, person of pure pleading and needing! Was this what I was waiting for, all day and night, all week? Something was brewing and now something seems relieved. Not relieved enough though. It's a call, a call, to arms, to vocation, whatever it is I'm tearing my cap off of my head and turned to the back of the house and biting my knuckle.

 

Clutching my gun and re-donning my hat I slowly, silently, almost mechanically creep towards the house. Each step I should not do but the wheels are turning now, it's underway.

 

Pausing outside the drawing room window, I look at the tiles strewn about. The old ones have been thrown careless in a broken heap, while the new ones are stacked up neatly on the lawn and on the top of the window eaves. The ladder is left there and I know who I saw at the top of it just now, who I heard.

 

Gripping the rung of ladder level with my face I take one cautious step on the bottom rung, and heave my body upwards. Whoops! What's going? Seem to be going down instead of up... the bottom of the ladder is sinking into the wet, muddy lawn from my weight. I wait a minute and it reaches a limit, and I climb ever upwards to the room with him in it. My gun I have brung because we're a team and heaven forbid I leave it somewhere to get wet or pilfered or interfered with by some visiting child or bungling friend of the squire's.

 

God I hope I'm right and he's more.

 

Eyes wide with surprise and accusation and faint fear are what greet me when I present myself ginger above the window sill. I should of course say something, ask permission before I enter, but how could I explain this with words? Gazing, mutual, I cling to the top of the ladder as I clung to his elbows earlier, with the mixture of safety and precariousness, and I drink him in aesthetically. Sat up in bed in his night shirt with his hair dragged through ditch-like, his knees are drawn up but he is resting on his arms to the sides, defences down and open. Mouth open he simply, simply stares as I push open the window gently, aware it could be creaky (would be, in this rickety old place), and I hoist myself bodily over the sill and into the chambers. When my feet touch the carpet I dare glance up at him again as I prop on the wall my gun, which seems crazy that I brought up with me, when _I'm_ the intruder, the dangerous one. Paleness on his cheeks and the softness in his eyes and the heaving of his chest are my invitations, my temptations, the Scudder, Come, the call.

 

Oh sir.

 

Eyes brown and huge and following me as I take great pains to approach the bed quietly, heel and slide toe, as I've still me boots and all overclothes on, I never even taked my hat off in his presence, and besides his bed, hunkering down with my knees, I bring my face to his and clutch his hand and whisper that what he's been sending out I've been getting, that all along, I knew.

 

Applecart is well and truly upset, smashed, smithereens, strewn about broken.

“Wh-what are you doing?” he says, though his pleading eyes and body leaning ever so slightly forward and his knees actually parting, though I'm still knelt beside the bed, tell me he's not confused so much as terrified. I'm so close that when I blink I brush his cheek with my lashes, that when he breathes out in little huffs I feel the air on my lips. Lips seem the most important things in the room, in the world now. Slowly, I move ever so closer to his flushed face, and I see, just before I touch him, his eyes drift closed and his head tilts upwards and sidewards to accommodate me. Not just allowing himself to be kissed. Asking for it. Do I not always do as I am instructed?

 

Gently and with as much restraint as I can muster, considering the towering amount of tension in the room which seems to be concentrated in my dizzy head, I kiss him very bare and friendly-like, to be honest. Not the way I'd kiss a lover – yet. I kiss him again, eyes closed, Oh God it feels like very Heaven, if I never get there it doesn't matter – I haven't missed out. Breathing out through his nose – I can feel it, Mr. Hall shifts about in the bed and keeps his lips locked to mine and I feel his hands on my shoulders, soft and tentative. Then a bit more tugging on my coat – ah, he wants me to come up onto the bed. Don't you, sir. Snappin' the kiss with a sweep of my tongue that makes him spasm under my hands, I get up on one knee, then stand and then sit on the side of the bed, Mr. Hall still pressing small but desperate kisses on my lips and on the side of my face and nose and jaw. Still not what I'd describe – probably in the school-yard – as necking or passionate kissing and yet – it has me more excited than I've ever felt. Taking a momentary break, he pauses in kissing the hair growing too long besides my ear above my stubble and sends me his scared eyes in the moonlight. O don't stop to think on it sir! Don't stop kissing me now, please, don't send me off, _don't_ come to your senses only leave your senses to me, your touch and taste and smell and feel..

 

Bodily bolder, I stare him down as I slide one arm, my left arm, around his shoulders and pushing forward, invite him to tip back a little against his own pillows, and with my other hand I stroke his dark hair repeatedly, soothingly, before sliding my fingers down to his jaw and encouraging his mouth back to mine, side of his face leaning on my assured shoulder.

 

It's like going underwater. Under warm, impossibly comfortable and clement water, murky yet clean and soft like air. This kiss has broken the barriers, unmistakably. I press and knead my lips against his with not a trace of reticence, with absolute wanton, unabashed desire. And he does so right back to me, opening his mouth and eagerly sliding his tongue past his own mouth, past my tongue even, and out into the open night air desperately licking my bottom lip, over and over, then licking the side of my mouth where the first moustache hairs appear, when I let them, and lately I've let them. He's all over the place actually, must be out of practice, as here we are performing the sort of kisses that kids do when they's becoming into little adults, with spit and biting and sloppy noises and clashing teeth.. I'd forgotten how reet good it feels when a body is kissing you with the same intensity as you're bestowing on them. Prim enough, he's hooked his arms around my back at chest-level and is clinging to his own elbows with apparently no immediate inclination to slide anywhere naughtier, although he is about squeezing the life out of me. Breathing has therefore become a struggle but that is secondary right now, God what he's doing will keep me alive, more alive than oxygen, more alive than I've ever felt.

 

Aahh... steadying him true with my hands, I demand control and kiss the left side of his panting face, before sliding my lips and tongue over his mouth and he tries to suck me in for another but playfully I keep going, passing right over, and start to kiss his right cheek. At this he lurches in the bed again and the mattress heaves beneath us; I chuckle as he frowns and brings his arms higher to encircle my neck and leave me pinned and poised for his intentions – that is to tease my mouth with his and only give me a tiny kiss either side though I seek him out. Cheeky bugger is copying me what I do to him, and I burrow my face not kissing but grinning into his sweaty cheek. I feel his head slide down and he does the same to my neck, and we both pant for breath that's visible in the cold night with the window open.

With him in my arms, I'm still only sitting on the side of the bed as he is sat up at his headboard and bizarrely still under the blankets.

 

Noticing this perhaps, he looks down and tugs timidly at my waist, still keeping well clear of my lascivious lap- area, and whispers, “Come on, come up onto...” Can't bring himself to say bed despite all. In my haste to cross the room and throw myself upon him, though slow and tender I did so, I jumped into action with all me outdoors-clothes still on. It's almost ridiculous, although Mr. Hall is looking up and down at my body, my shoulders dust yellow from the blossoms, pants wet from dew and rain and boots muddy from trailing round the gardens. He grabs a fold in my cords near my knee and rubs it repeatedly in his fingers. Leans forward and close-eyed, inhales my shoulder and neck and hair unashamedly greedily. I rub his back. Feels like this is some down time, preparation time, the warm up before the kick off, as it were and so to speak.

 

“Just a minute, just let me pull these off, don't want to kick you to all to smithereens.” Turning to my shoes. An exhaling smile at this as he watches me lean down to my feet to try and extract them from these cursed boots. Keep calm, Alec! Less haste, more speed! Damn these laces though! Had I a knife I'd cut them! So difficult to fiddle with these knots when they's so old and soaked through. I try vainly to yank the boot entire off with them still tied, to no avail.

 

It doesn't help that my heart is thumping and my lips are thumping too with the going-over they just got, and he's watching and waiting with his fingers curled around the back hem of my jacket, ready to draw me to him, under those sacred bedclothes, to his beautiful body, oh _hell,_ these lacers, ah! There we go! I've managed to loosen the shoes with only a bit of damage and gleefully I use my toes to remove them and kick them across the room. They land with rather a loud thump, two thumps one after the other and I cringe, after all the sneaking and tip-toeing I've been doing.

 

“Sorry,” to him for it and he merely smiles lazily, one side of his mouth peaking over the other, and leaning towards, extends both arms around my body with plenty of room, a request rather than a demand. Ready for more. Returning his smile, I quickly shuck my coat before he can have a canary over my further disrobing and dive under the blankets and into his arms. This bed is reet comfy! He's clung to me, facing me, us facing each other, and I push my head over to – oh hell! I've still me cap on me did you ever! God if he were a girl, or indeed _anyone_ else, they'd be having a right laugh at me for my etiquette. Reaching back and tossing my hat away, I become aware that under the covers, he has slid towards me alright, but not against me. He hands hold mine, his feet rub against my wet socks that I'm ashamed of now but not keen to ready lest I draw attention. His hips and chest and knees he keeps carefully to his side of the bed. That's fine. I didn't come here to try and educate him or tell him what he wants done and do it. Only for him to feel good, to try and absolutely quell his loneliness with a torrent of my own brand of attentions. My own lonesomeness feels like a dim and distant memory. With him squeezing my hands and rubbing his nose against my cheek and practically quivering with excitement, feels like I've come to exactly where I'm meant to be.

 

Because this is my night, when I get to do exactly what I want to for a change. And he wants me to. I know I could have him easily, do whatever I want to him and have him tend me, but he's so precious and cautious and un-knowingly boisterous, I almost don't want to do anything! Except how can I resist sliding my hands up his long, strong arms, up to his elbows where his sleeves begin, then outside his shirt to his shoulders, then softly fingertips at his neck, then down his chest and back up to his hair and suddenly mouth full of mouth, my hair tugged, and rolling onto my back and his knee between mine and his arm firmly round my waist and my own hands flailing wildly.

 

“Mmmmm.” That were one or more of us. Difficult to form words when your mouth has more pressing matters to attend to. Lord, he feels good. He's getting more liberal with my body, running his hands down my flank and working his fingers up under my waistcoat, although not underneath my shirt, but his hands press against my belly from the pressure as this waistcoat is really too small; put on a little weight lately as Ma has been trying to fatten me up in preparation for leaving home and going out into the world. Mr. Hall couldn't know this, mightn't care a whit but he's certainly enjoying the physical consequence of this mother-henning, as he vices my corduroy hip with bruising fingers and kisses me like a starving man would tend to a banquet – with no manners.

 

Oh yes, this is just what I was hoping for. Just to have every way with him and him wanting it, craving it just as much as I... Mr. Hall – I mean, _damn_ it after all, he's – Maurice – is now nuzzling at my neck kissing and breathing and attempting clumsily to open my shirt in order to burrow further down my chest. Actually he's restricting my breathing again somewhat but I don't want to risk putting him off what he's doing by saying so, so I gently glide his chest with my hands, and they slide over his shoulders down his back, down … down... down... to that lovely arse that I just had to peek at every time he strode past me, though I couldn't make out much with those suit jackets he kept wearing, I could fill in the gaps with my imagination myself. Now I don't have to, oooh and as I travel my hands over I _squeeze_ those cheeks firm and can't help bucking upwards my own hips and groaning. Maurice immediately freezes in his ministrations at my collarbone and our eyes meet, his shook and animated and mine sorry and hopeful; he jerks away from me, but only so far, only to lean back on his elbow and I can see him attempting to collect himself so I swoop in to collect him myself, first.

 

I scared him a little, at last.

 

Propping myself up on one elbow to match him, I stroke his face and he gratefully touches my hand that's doing so.

 

“Alright?” I ask blithely; I want to ease him up and best way is talking, not tending to him physical. I wonder if he's afraid that I'll just open him up and pin him to the mattress with my private, over and over strong and fast and frantic, pulling his hair and restricting his limbs with my own. Admitted, I have fantasized about this, of course in my fantasy I am well stronger than he whereas here in reality, in bed with his flesh blood and bone, his physical prowess is deliciously in evidence. But I don't want to dominate him. I want to show him that tonight we're equals, we're friends. That means give and take.

 

“I won't hurt you, sir... it … we can just do anything you want,” and I rub my head into his cheek to make him believe me.

 

“I don't know what I – I haven't ever -” and sends me those pleading eyes again, blushing with embarrassment. Oh _darling._ I might have known. Those signals I was getting, so subtle and strong from him, weren't just a call for company or sex; but a plea for saving from some terrible life-long affliction of solitariness.

 

And look at him; eyes closed, so ashamed. He's still clinging to my arms though. It does occur to me how difficult it must be for a fella to admit to this. A real slight on the old masculinity. Torment it must have been, be still. Right.

 

Pulling myself into a sitting position beside his prone body, he clings harder to me for fear I'm leaving. Not even close. I fold my legs like the Indians and lean over him friendly-like as he gazes up at me. Hoving my face over his so he won't miss a word, he drinks me in.

 

“That's fine, Mr. Hall” - his eyes squeeze at this - “we can go gentle on each other, just like we is now.. I think you like the kissin', is that right?”

For my pleasure, he smiles. “Yes, and ...”

 

Stroking his face, Alec: “And?”

 

“....Your hands...” and he takes my left one and presses it to his face; for a moment my fingertips slide past his full, red lips and I have to dig down deep for my deep down recesses of control so as not to groan again or lurch my blasted hips again and send him skitterish to the corner of the room.

 

With effort, I: “Touching, is it? You want me to touch you?”

 

Blimey. This is already about as patient and drawn-out a session as any I've ever had – with a fellow. For some reason though he's every inch a man – and there are a lot of inches – it's like a girl I'm treating him, careful and tender and slow, as he's much more nervous and vulnerable than a boy who you meet at a bar and who'll go willing with you down an alley and up against a barn. Mind you I've had a handful of girls who about threw me over their shoulder with enthusiasm and I were the one limping away afterwards!

 

Of course, he's not just a man, he's a _gentle_ man and unused to the brash, solid, hot and hasty rougher side of life I'll wager. I'm no gentleman but I can be gentle, with him. I want to be. I want him to feel good, and I want him to worship me like one would a swooping saving guardian angel.

 

Shyly, he: “Please...” And I find I don't even want him to beg thus, I want him whisper what he wants and for me to fulfil it for him, anything, everything, all night forever.

 

I smiling in response, he reaches out again as if he can't help himself and grabs me too roughly and I rock backwards, and he embraces me _squeezing_ till I'm wheezing and he trembles and hides his face in my crumpled lapels.

 

“That's alright sir, just … nice and calm...” Palm and spread fingers on his chest I push him back down onto the bed, and rearrange the pillows that got strewn about earlier. I prop them up so his head isn't pressed against the hard headboard. God I'm so aware of him and his potential fears and discomforts that I could be him lying down with those liquid brown eyes never leaving me, never.

 

Taking great pains to awkwardly shift my hips away from his, I ease myself down to lie on my side beside he who's stretched out on his back as I instructed him with my hands. Leaning my head on my right hand leaning on my right elbow, I keep focussed on his face as I trail my free hand down the front of his body. Perhaps this will be more comfy for him than going straight for his backside; that seemed to send him catapulting. Never mind. There'll be time enough.

 

Noticing, maybe, my own hesitance, Maurice flicks his eyes down my body, then back up his own body where my hand is idling over his night shirted chest. Blankets have been discarded and given a holiday on the ground from when we were tumbling around just now.

 

Says he: “I want to... but I don't want to do anything wrong.” Shuffling closer, I breathe into his ear, “Then let me.. let me take care of you, you'll love it, that's a promise sir.”

 

Closed eyes open and latch onto mine, and he smiles and tries to control his twitching body as I drag my left hand, touching only with my fingers, and only the outside of his shirt, down his chest to his belly, and across and up an arm, a smooth bicep, and over his shoulder to his neck...

 

…. and then down his other arm and slowly down to his waist, and we're both watching, I as intently and wonderingly as him as if I am just as in the dark about that hand's intentions as he. Perhaps I am. My mind is fuzzy so my body is working on its own. Whining a bit – God, could I have imagined he could make sounds as these? - he seizes the sheets underneath him and again squeezes his eyes shut as I reach his privates, nice and hard and trembling, and stroke the outside of his pajamas with my fingertips, as soft as if I were spreading seeds in a plant pot of soil.

 

“Good lad,” I whisper into his red ear, “That's nice, ain't it? Feels good?” At this point I'm well aware I could make him pop off easily just by whispering hotly and dirtily, but I just cannot resist touching him at last. Yes it feels good. For him, and for me. I clutch him tighter to my chest and face with my right arm – my left hand is the one having all the fun which is awkward but there's no way in hell I'm going to stop what I'm doing as he – _God_ – barely but repeatedly juts his hip upwards into my fingers which are making circles round and around slowly, lazily on his crotch. This won't take long.

 

Propelling my hips far away from his for safety, as I don't want him to startle, I push my knees against the side of his thigh but compensate by nuzzling into his cheek, all the while softly working him over. Not even wanking. No-where near, in fact it's the kind of treatment that would usually bring about sweet Fanny Arkwright of a result if I were doing it on some other lad, or on myself! It's just enough for him though – he's near, he's close, he wants it but he's frightened.

 

I could kiss him, but I rather think he needs the use of both his mouth and nose just for breathing just at this moment in time. I've calmed down considerably. Yes this is the most exciting thing that has ever happened to me. The most exciting thing I've done. But I'm in control. There's no need to panic or overreact or rush, because this was coming and I'm doing exactly what I'm supposed to, what he wants.

 

Brushing my hand, the slightest bit more intensely, up and down, up and down that lovely dick a-straining those night-pants. More pants coming from Maurice, I hear them and I feel them on my face. Come on, sir, it's alright, it's better than alright, it's good it's sweet it's wonderful....

 

Glancing at his face again his eyes are wide and seeking mine. Send him a smile which he attempts bravely to return. You'll get used to this feeling sir. Settling down, I press my cheek against his and feel his eyelashes on my temple, I sigh out my nose like this is the most natural and relaxing thing to be doing of a wet August night. Together, we watch my fingers walking up his bulge... patting a little.. then sliding down again, slightly, more, faster, first one brushing fingertip and another and now a thumb nearly touching his balls, through the cottony fabric, yes, all over, you want it sir I know you been, it's fine, gently now – maybe I'll start a more steady rhythm, maybe I'll actually – ease my hand under – his pants -

 

Wh- whoa! Thrashing suddenly beside me and with a sharp intake of wet breath followed by a worryingly loud groan that has me shooting a terrified glance at the door, and ridiculously, the second story window, Maurice jerks his lower half and sits up abrupt, done groaning and now gasping for air. A sudden warmth under my fingers and he's arrived.

 

Well.... well! That was sudden! Mmmm... just a few little tickles on the dick and he's away. Just lovely to behold. I stay lying down to give him a moment, having withdrawn my proud hand, almost completely dry but used and pleased.

 

O dear. But did he want it? I'm not receiving the grateful squeezes and kisses and whimpers of love I was expecting – anticipating. Maybe he's got his Holy Orders himsel'?! And I've gone and ruined his chances! Blustering _blast_ , Alec! Don't leap to conclusions...

 

He's sitting forward with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. From behind I can see his shirt wet with sweat and his hair sticking to his neck. Of course! What else to do only - ? I push myself up behind him, hands on his waist that's practically vibrating with intensity and heaving with exertion, and it's not lost upon me that he looks away, towards the dresser to avoid my face. Even hiding himself with his hand. Never mind. You recover sir. Kisses on the back of his neck, up to his ear hairline and finally he leans his head back to me, and I can feel him relax a bit in my embrace.

“Sorry,” a small, preposterous admission in the big, dark room, and cold breath carries it outwards. I want to wave it away into nothingness.

 

I find his ear again with my lips and against that delicious stubble under, “I'm not. Got a hankie?”

Tummy shaking with laugher, without making any actual noise, he turns round in the circle of my arms and holds me in return, we chest to chest now and I having to manipulate and stretch my legs crazily in order to accommodate this. Not easy to hug someone when you's both sitting on a bed! But suggest any other place I'd rather be and I'd shoot each and every one of them down.

 

Slowly we lower. To the relief of my legs; one knee having being bent in a completely fantastic angle, unputupable. Remembering, I actually think to check the pocket of my slacks that I'm still wearing fully and unmussed, and produce a clean – well, mostly – hankie and hand it over. Blazing with embarrassment, I'm thanked and rolled away from as he mops away his indignity. To give him some minuscule measure of privacy, I hop off of the bed to retrieve the blankets. Cold night! And yet I'd be loathe to close the window. Not that I see it as a means of escape but I like the connexion to the nature outside, the trees and grass and bodies of water and wind and rain and wild animals where I feel so comfortable. I'm not ready to stride away from the familiar entirely _yet._

 

“Where... are you going?” Whoops, I'd been staring out the window a-chewing on a fingernail. Turning, I see Mr. Hall is sat back up slightly and looking at me questioning, dismayed. I try to remember a time, hours ago, way back in the mists of time, when he just seemed to exude confidence and upper-class arrogance. Now he's in the palm of my hand I feel a cold realization that I'm now responsible for him, followed by a warm rushing desire to protect him forever.

 

“Just merely retrieving these sir, they got tossed over at some point from ours tussling,” I dip and pick up the blankets, shaking them out and sliding back onto the bed with them. Drawing them up and around him, I resume my position facing him on my side and he mirrors me, his face showing his relief and his arms demonstrating, vice-like, his affection to me.

 

Only rubbing cheeks now, but I'll try to grab a kiss and get the ball rolling again, because the tension in my own pants is only heightened by witnessing his pleasure, and feeling his warm body against mine, his toes seeking mine and rubbing them way down at the bottom of the bed. There again, it's so easy, so common, so customary to come. I can do it by meself, or with some willing lassie or lad, it's not hard to seek out. Comin's are ten a penny but this right here, this beautiful, wonderful, pompous, needy, reedy, foolish fellow a-burrowing his face into my neck and his hair in my ears and his arms near suffocating me with the strength of a winning rugby-tackle, this I cannae put worth on it. It shouldn't have happened, it won't happen again but somehow the night wished it and it feels like we just followed the instructions of the chilly breeze, towards each other.

 

It occurs to me that I should be the one apologizing, I were the one taking liberties as big and wide as any imaginable. As the Atlantic Sea.

 

But – what's he doing now? Is he – touch my cords, right about where my pocket is, and a patch as a matter of fact which I hope he can't feel though he must have seen it a dozen times or as many times as I presented myself in front of him these last few days, I first think he's trying to return my handkerchief, but then he strokes my thigh, only about four inches, over and over and never towards my own aching erection, he says, looking between us low, then up into my eyes: “Are you... Did you...?” And I feel a blush on my own face, not from embarrassment but from his consideration of me.

“No.. but I'm just about ready to go off, you're that gorgeous, sir..” and I inhale his hair and rub his warm soft cottony back.

“What shall I do?” Oh sir! Oh the millions of ways I could answer that! Oh the things you would probably do, the ways you would touch me and wet me and press me and use that beautiful body to send my brains rocketing skyward. But … your eyes still look glassy and scared. You've not done this. You're mine to look after but not mine to use. This togetherness is enough, this friendship you're showing me, I've never done this before neither!

“Kiss me,” I breathe into his face that I'm holding with two hands and _ooooh_ he obeys instantly, jamming his mouth on mine and working those jaws, those lips, those tongues, mine too, breath sliding slow up noses and gasping out small gaps between furious mouths. Grunts and frowns and kicking legs, and I with my arms around his back I shove my hands up under his shirt and dig my fingers into his smooth, strong, skin, noticing the thick patches of hair up his spine and whining almost angrily into his mouth, while he embraces my waist with one arm and yanks at my curls with the other, pulls me closer, pulls me hither and thither so he can kiss me passionately from every angle imaginable. It's a wonder we don't bash heads! But I'm acutely aware of how careful we are being with each other, how our hands dig but rub and press, our mouths bash and teeth bite but tongues and lips immediately soothe, and our legs caress but we respect each other with clothes.

 

Ripping his clothes off and riding him till the cows come home seems a far-off notion. I had nary an idea what I'd be doing with him when I started up that ladder but this is it, this is what we want, where we've been going and it's more than simple sinful fornication.

 

Finally my penis demands some relief, oh please, anything and I bite Mr. Hall's neck _gently_ as I dare to inch my right leg between both of his, him opening them unthinkingly, eagerly. Wriggling closer, I feel such blessed relief to press myself intimately against his hip, not his crotch – not yet – but any bodily contact at this point is almost tearfully welcome. He feels it, my hardness, he spasms in surprise like I thought he would, but instead of jerking backwards, he draws me closer to his chest and slides his own right leg between mine, his knee ending up knocking me right in the backside. Groaning again, in sweet agony, I put the top on the layer cake by wrapping my left leg around his right one. Thus intertwined, and arms around clinging, I commence to grinding shamelessly, basically against his strong, thick, absurdly blue and white striped thigh, feeling my own dick and balls smashing and relaxing and pressing and relieving over and over and over with every thrust forward, hips rocking, see-sawing and eyes jammed closed and mouth unable to kiss with teeth grinding, throat guttural nails digging and his hands spread out on my waistcoat back and his breath rapid and deep and getting faster in my ear and and andandandand _andand_ THERE!! “AHHH, aaaah, aaah, oooh …”

..yes... Oh, God, I've completed in my own pants, but against his leg and with the sound of his heaving lungs and pumping blood all around me. Gasping air desperately up my nose, I blink at last in the wake of the turmoil and – he brushes my sweaty hair out of my eyes and up onto my forehead. He's held me all through it, me clutching him for king and country. _God_.

 

So satisfied... so sleepy. I can't but give in and allow when he eases onto his back and adjusts me on top of him, my cheek on his chest, and I'm happy to let him direct. He's strong and I feel exhausted with physical effort and everything I've been thinking and doing this last half hour. Grumbling when he starts wriggling about and freeing one of his arms from around me, I have to laugh when he rummages in the dresser drawer and offers me silently a handkerchief.

 

  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fin de partie une
> 
> * crawls off undercovers *


End file.
